Between the Two of Us
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Michandrea AU. She wasn't dead. That was the important thing. The other things? Things they thought mattered? Things that might have mattered once? They didn't matter anymore. They could get through them. They'd work it out between them. Michandrea is the main ship. Caryl is secondary.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This story was requested on Tumblr by an anonymous reader. It struck an interest for me, and I'm going to work on it a little at a time. Right now I'm not fast with anything, but I'll add to it when I can.**

 **I think they meant for it to be a one shot, but it's going to be more than that. It's an AU in that Andrea lives past when they find her in Woodbury. There are going to be familiar faces, maybe some new ones, and I'm going to take the story where I want it to go, so don't expect it to follow the show at all even if I may borrow bits and pieces here and there.**

 **Michandrea is the main ship of this story, but Caryl is the secondary ship. There will be chapters where other characters feature and feature strongly. Many of my stories are somewhat "group" stories and this will be no different.**

 **I'll put warnings for anything that I think might trigger anyone, but it's a Walking Dead story so you should expect the basics. I won't be giving warnings for those types of things—violence, gore, etc. Since it's a Michandrea pairing, you should also expect all things relating to a relationship between the two women.**

 **If you choose to read, I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think!**

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She wasn't dead. She was almost dead. She might have been dead if things had gone a little differently or if they'd been an hour later finding her, but she wasn't dead.

She was unconscious. She'd been crumpled on the ground in a pool of blood. Whether or not it was his or hers, honestly, was of little consequence. She was bleeding. His turned corpse was put down on the ground near her. He'd been bleeding too. There was no need in trying to sort out the blood that belonged to either of them as the rivers of it ran together on the floor.

She wasn't dead. That was the important thing.

She'd been conscious for barely a half a minute, barely long enough to look at them with almost empty eyes and breathe something out that no one understood—that no one could hear.

Michonne had heard it. She'd known what it was even without Andrea's voice being loud enough to carry. She could identify the sound because she'd heard it so many times before—in the night after nightmares, in the day when they wandered accidentally too far apart, when she'd been consumed by the fever that had almost taken her once before.

 _Mich_.

It was all she said. Just the one word. The one little nickname that she'd given Michonne, a nickname that the woman wasn't even overly fond of but accepted because it was Andrea that called her that. As soon as the sound had left her lips, barely more than a puff of air, she'd given over to the exhaustion, the blood loss, the fear—whatever it was that had taken her out of herself for the time being. She'd given over to it and everyone else who had come into the room, quite unaware of the details of the time the two of them had spent together, declared that no one had understood what she said. They'd declared that it probably hadn't meant anything anyway.

 _Mich._

It had meant everything. Just that one syllable sound meant more to Michonne at the moment than she could explain.

It said, even without Andrea having to say it, that she was sorry—that she still cared where Michonne was. She'd always cared where she was. She'd always seemed to fear that Michonne would go, that she'd leave her when she needed her most. She'd leave when her guard was down.

That's probably why it hurt so much, and that's probably why Michonne simply couldn't understand why it was that Andrea had let her walk out of those gates. Why had she let her leave her behind when her subconscious mind always seemed to be so concerned with an unintended abandonment?

Michonne would ask her one day. One day she'd demand an answer. She didn't need drawn out apologies—they'd never done very much for anyone and in this world they really did even less—but she simply wanted to know why it was that Andrea had let her go. And one day? She'd demand to know.

But first she had to make sure she lived.

To help carry her out they'd made a gurney of sorts. They'd wrapped her in a tarp to make it easier to move her without risking the aggravation of any injury that they might be unaware of. They'd put her in the back of the truck.

Michonne had been afraid to hold her like she wanted to—to cradle her and try her best to let her know that she was there.

 _Just like all the times she'd let her know before that she was there._

She'd settled for sitting with her, in the back of the truck, counting in her mind every bump that they hit and every pothole that could've been avoided—that would have been avoided if the person in the back had mattered to Rick.

Michonne stroked her hair, stiff with the drying blood, and she held her hand. She didn't know if Andrea would know that she was there. She wasn't honestly sure if she was aware of her presence at all, but at least Michonne knew she was there.

 _Michonne knew she'd never really left her. She'd walked away, yes, but she'd never really left her. In the physical sense, perhaps, but never in the emotional sense._

When the prison appeared ahead of them and they hit the bumpy stretch that led up to the gates, Michonne held her breath as though keeping her lungs still might keep the bumping of the truck from being too much for her companion—her best friend— _hers._

She heard the metal hiss of the gates as someone opened them and she heard the loud announcement that Daryl barked out that they were coming and that they needed Hershel.

And in just a few moments? Michonne would hand Andrea over to Hershel in the hope that a veterinarian could save her life.

She hadn't even willingly let them take her at Woodbury, and the woman there was a doctor—or at least she'd pretended to be one, not that anyone was going to let the bound and blindfolded Michonne do anything about it one way or another.

When the truck rolled to a stop, those they'd left behind came rushing up to it to find out what had happened. Had they been successful in killing the Governor? Had he killed anyone they knew? Why did they need Hershel?

The old man didn't hobble out to find out what had happened. Hopefully it was because Carl, having run ahead to give the news that they were coming, had told him to be prepared.

Everyone that spilled out of the vehicles caught those that they cared for especially in embraces. Everyone assured themselves that their loved ones were safe and uninjured.

Michonne tried to maintain the calmest disposition she could, letting herself out of the back of the truck by leaping over the side to speed the process and remind everyone that Andrea still needed their help, but inside she was screaming that they all needed to focus. There would be time for reunions for everyone when she was sure that a reunion of her own was coming.

Finally, though, she managed to get enough attention that Rick and Daryl opened the back of the truck and, as carefully as they could, caught Andrea up and rearranged the tarp to move her inside with as much care as possible.

Michonne followed her inside, not caring at the moment if she appeared to be as anxious as she was, and took her place beside Hershel in space that he'd set up for any examination that might need to take place of anyone there.

She was still unconscious. Michonne watched as he began, once Daryl and Rick had left the space, the preliminary examination of Andrea.

"Do you know what happened?" Hershel asked. "Anything that might help me know where to start? How long has she been unconscious?"

Michonne sighed.

"She's been in and out since we found her," Michonne said. "I don't know—if it's been full consciousness or not, but she's moved a little. I think she keeps coming back."

She stepped out of his way, watching from something of a distance as he checked vitals and did other things that Michonne suspected were simply standard.

"She's lost a lot of blood," Hershel said. "Get Beth? Carol? Let them know I'm going to need some help?"

Michonne nodded at him and immediately started for the exit from the small space.

"Do you know anything else that happened?" Hershel asked. "Anything else that—I can go on?"

Michonne stopped and looked back. She shook her head at him.

"It was a torture chamber," she said blankly. "I guess that's a good place to start."

Something flashed across Hershel's face for the moment, but the old man nodded his head. He hummed to himself and Michonne waited for a moment to see if she was being dismissed. When he didn't speak again, she assumed it was safe for her to go and do what he asked.

"Michonne," he called, catching her attention. She stopped and put her hand on the doorway nearest her, looking back over her shoulder. "I can tell it's important to you," he said. "It's important to all of us. I'll do what I can."

Michonne didn't speak. She simply nodded her head slightly, hoped that he knew it meant some form of "thanks" from her, and then she stepped out.

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"She's going to be fine, you know?" Carol asked.

Her entrance into the cell startled Michonne to the point that she almost laughably jumped in her chair. She'd expected to be alone for at least a little while. Or, maybe, she'd expected Beth to come in with her over-bubbly enthusiasm to spit all over her.

Carol's words were optimistic, but her tone was a little more down to Earth than the one that Beth usually employed.

Michonne snatched her hand away from where she'd been sitting, thinking she was alone, holding Andrea's hand while the woman slept—this time under the influence of whatever drugs Hershel had given her. Or, at least that's what Michonne was choosing to believe, if it wasn't true.

"Easy to say that," Michonne said.

"It is," Carol said. "It's always easier to say things than it is to believe them. Especially…"

She let her voice trail off.

"Especially?" Michonne asked, prompting her to continue.

"You two had a fight," Carol said. "You—weren't very nice to her when she came to try to work things out. You'll have a lot to work out together."

"It doesn't matter," Michonne said. "What happened? Not anymore."

Carol stepped around her, checking vitals in much the same way that Hershel or Beth did when they came in—something easy that he could train them all to do if he needed to.

"Funny how that happens, isn't it?" Carol asked. She didn't wait for Michonne to ask her what she was talking about. "We think little things matter. But then? Something happens that makes us realize they really don't—maybe they never did."

Michonne hummed, barely registering that she'd heard the comment the woman made.

Carol backed away.

"She's stable," Carol said. "Just going to take some time to heal. And then? It's probably going to take some time to _heal_. Different kinds of injuries take their own time."

"Some never do heal," Michonne said blankly.

Carol hummed at her, an almost flippant agreement.

"I know that—you and I don't know each other too well," Carol said. "But Andrea was my friend. She—uh—she saved my life at the farm. I actually thought she died, that night, saving my life. I owe her a lot. And I care for her a lot. So—if you need anything, or she needs anything, you'll let me know?"

Michonne swallowed. The offer felt sincere. In the short amount of time that she'd known Carol, she'd felt like the woman was probably quite sincere. She seemed, too, quite kind. It just so happened that, really, Michonne hadn't had much time to get to know everyone—or to really feel like too many of them had much of an interest in getting to know her.

For that reason, it being the first sign that anyone might be really interested in her for more than what she might have to offer them, Carol's offer tugged at something inside Michonne.

"Thank you," Michonne said, as sincerely as she could. "Really."

Carol nodded at her, offered her a quick smile, and nodded again.

"I know you—saw Daryl and me," Carol said.

Michonne raised her eyebros at her. She'd seen the two of them, just outside the guard tower, share a quick kiss. They'd looked around, both of them, so uncomfortably afterward—checking in every direction to see if they'd been caught like teenagers doing something forbidden—that Michonne had simply ducked back into the shadows and waited until they left to finish the walk she was taking. She hadn't wanted to make them uncomfortable. She hadn't wanted, either, to interrupt anything that really wasn't any of her business.

She didn't realize they'd known she was there.

Carol shook her head slightly, and then she spoke almost as if she had the ability to read Michonne's thoughts.

"Daryl didn't see you," Carol said. "And—I appreciate you not saying anything. He's—we're a little _new_ at this. And—we're just…we just…"

"You don't owe me an explanation," Michonne said quickly.

Carol smiled again, the same soft smile as before, and nodded.

"I guess I was just trying to say the same thing," Carol said. "And—I'm not going to say anything…if you want to hold her hand? Or…I offered to take over coming to check on her. So Beth wouldn't be bothering you. I just—wanted to say that…you know…you don't owe me an explanation."

Michonne swallowed and nodded at Carol, not bothering to say the thanks she was thinking at the moment.

But, as a show of her thanks and of whatever kind of bond that was doing its best to form there for the moment, she reached and caught Andrea's hand again, rubbing her thumb over the top of her knuckles the same way she'd been doing when Carol had come into the cell.

"Let me know if you need something," Carol said softly, just before she slipped out of the cell. "She's going to be fine."

"She has to be," Michonne said quietly, to nobody but herself and the woman who probably couldn't hear her. Not yet at least.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **Thank you all for your support for the first chapter! I hope you continue to enjoy this as we go along.**

 **Let me know what you think!**

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Carol didn't know Michonne well. Nobody did. The woman had shown up outside their fences, apparently, covered in Walker guts and blood and shot by someone entirely unknown to them—someone they later learned was Merle, and therefore not that unknown. Since then? She'd teetered somewhere between being a useful, and therefore semi-accepted member of their group, and an almost total outcast.

It wasn't until Andrea had come to warn them about the Governor that Carol had become aware that Andrea was alive and that, somehow, she'd ended up with Michonne after they'd assumed her dead at the farm and, apparently and regretfully, left her there alone.

It was also then that Carol became aware that there was something between the women—even if she didn't have a name for it. Maybe it was just friendship, but perhaps it was something a little more.

Carol had stumbled out, accidentally, into the courtyard of the prison and had come upon the two women having some sort of slightly heated discussion on the day that Andrea had shown up out of the blue. Carol hadn't stayed, out of respect for the women and knowledge that she wasn't really expected to be there and be privy to the conversation, but she'd caught bits and pieces of it.

Enough, even from the tone, to know that there were some hurt feelings there. And, more than that, to know that there were some very deeply felt feelings.

It had been, even though she hated to admit it, her first reminder that Michonne might not be the solid stone person, through and through, that she somewhat presented herself to be.

Carol wanted to do better to get to know her. The life that they led now promoted being as close to everyone as you possibly could be—for all they knew, they were all they had left—but it also promoted keeping your distance because it was at the forefront of everyone's minds that they might lose each other at any moment. And that loss? It was only harder if you'd let yourself get attached.

It was the catch-22 of their lives now.

Whatever the fight the two women had been having, it had either been worked out or—and Carol thought this was most likely—it had been swept under the rug now that they were back together, the Governor having disappeared as though he'd simply evaporated, and now that Andrea was still teetering on the edge of staying alive.

Carol had seen Michonne, when she'd gone in to check on Andrea earlier, curled up precariously on the edge of the prison cot, dozing next to the woman, still careful not to touch her should it aggravate any of the injuries that Hershel had done his best to take care of.

She wasn't asking Michonne what the relationship between them was. She could tell that it was something deep between them, but what it was exactly? It wasn't any of Carol's business.

And it was very likely that not even the two of them knew what it was.

Relationships, after all, were difficult before all of this. They were only made more difficult by the lives that they led now.

Carol knew that as well as anyone. Maybe even better.

She saw the flame as it danced to life for a second and then disappeared, leaving behind it the glowing end of a cigarette. Carol walked toward it.

"You're late," Carol said. "I've been waiting at least half an hour."

"Rick," Daryl growled.

"Worried about the Governor?" Carol asked.

"Worried," Daryl responded. "Do it really matter why these days?"

Carol hummed her understanding. There was plenty to worry about these days. And, if the Governor came back, especially before they'd finished repairing the damage his last visit had left, there would be plenty more to worry about.

"Do you have watch?" Carol asked.

For all that the rest of the prison knew at this moment, Carol was asleep in her cell. She certainly wasn't waiting outside the second guard tower—the one they'd use since the Governor destroyed their other and they hadn't had time to make a suitable replacement for it as of yet—waiting on Daryl to come out.

"Yeah," Daryl said.

"Lonely?" Carol asked. "You—want some company?"

"Kind of important I keep watch," he commented.

Carol smiled to herself, even though she was sure that he couldn't see it in the darkness.

"We can work around it," Carol said. "Keep your field of vision clear?"

Daryl laughed quietly in the dark.

"Stop," he remarked.

Without saying anything else, he headed in the direction he'd been going in the first place—toward the guard tower. Carol lingered in her spot a moment, deciding what she should do.

He needed time—he'd lost his brother, and though he might pretend that it hadn't had an impact on him, and though he might pretend that he'd lost him a long time, and really he'd lost him several times, Carol knew that it was going to bother him. He was going to have to deal with it.

And Daryl was new to this—whatever this unnamed thing between them was—so he was still uncomfortable with it, even more than Carol was. And, at the moment, he was shy about the possibility of anyone knowing what it was, even if they weren't entirely sure themselves, so he sometimes shied away from her for fear that someone would uncover whatever it was and would demand an explanation—an explanation that they didn't need, and one that really wasn't any of their business, but still they might demand it.

And though he teased her—or she took it as teasing, even if that's not what he intended it to be—about not being wholly interested in her, he always seemed to miss her when she was gone, even if he wouldn't come right out and say it in those words.

So, at the moment, she wasn't really sure if she was being invited or not to go to the guard tower with him. She wasn't really sure if he truly wanted the time alone, or even if he was tired of her presence, or if he simply expected her to take the teasing for what it was and come to keep him company at any rate.

"You comin'?" He asked quietly, his voice barely reaching her.

Carol smiled to herself at both the sentiment and the innuendo.

"If you'll let me," she responded equally as quietly as he'd spoken. She heard him snort and then she started after him in the dark.

Relationships were complicated. Even more so now than before. And whatever the relationship between Andrea and Michonne, it was between the two of them. It wasn't Carol's business if they didn't want it to be.

She understood that. Maybe better than most.

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"Mich?" Andrea whispered hoarsely.

Michonne was almost asleep, but she roused at the sound of Andrea's voice—dry and scratched. Immediately, she reached around, hissing to herself to find that both of her arms were at different states of being numb from her awkward position, and found the water bottle with the straw that she'd worked forever to scavenge up out of some of the drawers in the prison.

She brought it around and moved enough to bring the straw to Andrea's lips.

"Drink this," Michonne said. "Can you? Drink this? Just a sip."

In the dim light provided by the oil lamp, Michonne could see that Andrea was starting to wake up. It wasn't the best hour for it, not if she was going to be on any kind of normal schedule, but Michonne would take it. She was simply happy to see some signs of life.

Andrea let her put the straw in her mouth, though Michonne doubted she was fully with her at the moment, and upon some more insistence, she did pull a little of the liquid from the bottle.

"Not too much," Michonne said, pulling the straw away from her when she felt that the woman had all that she could handle for a moment.

Andrea opened her eyes then, fully, for the first time since they'd found her. They looked, even in the poor light, clearer than they had.

"Mich?" She said again, her voice only slightly less hoarse.

"I'm here," Michonne said.

Andrea looked around, but Michonne put a hand on her chest, almost at her throat, to dissuade her from trying to move too much.

"Keep still?" Michonne said. "Just for tonight? You're safe. We're safe. We're—at the prison? With…"

Michonne hesitated. She knew how Andrea had felt, at least in passing waves, about the people here when they'd been on the road together. She'd gone through pockets of feeling like she'd lost people that she cared about more than anyone in the world and through pockets of feeling resentful that they'd left her behind—that they'd never come back for her even when Michonne had taken her to the highway where she claimed to know for sure that they'd be waiting for her.

"Your friends," Michonne finished. "We're here. You're safe. You should sleep."

Andrea looked at her, a little confused, and Michonne didn't know if it had to do with all that had happened or if it had to do with the fact that she might not have her wits about her and maybe her memory wasn't as clear as it should be.

Hershel hadn't been too specific. She'd suffered injuries. There were broken ribs. There were lacerations and bruises. Her wrists were almost free of skin and thoroughly wrapped. There were some other injuries—but none he'd been overly specific about.

Maybe her memory wasn't entirely intact.

But, whatever it was, it didn't matter. It wouldn't matter. She was awake. She could wake up. And that meant that, from here, they could handle things.

"Mich—I'm sorry," Andrea said. "I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…"

Once it started, it continued, like the words were flowing out of her. Michonne hummed at her and shushed her quietly to try to stop the flow of the repeated words. She tried to soothe her as much as she could.

"Andrea—you don't have to say anything," Michonne said. "Nothing. No apologies. They don't matter now. Just—close your eyes. Sleep. We're safe. I'm here."

Andrea stared at her and Michonne thought that now it wasn't so much the confusion on her face that she'd worn before as it was a type of disbelief.

Maybe Michonne should have expected that.

As her only response at the moment, she offered Andrea the straw back. She placed it between her lips to give her no choice but to accept it at the moment.

"Drink—another sip," Michonne said, remembering how she'd had to pour water into the woman's mouth, cupping her hand under her chin to catch the excess, when she'd been consumed by the fever that had almost taken her before. The straw—a luxury that they couldn't find at the time—was a welcomed tool this time around.

Andrea did take a little of the water, and after she'd swallowed it and Michonne had taken the straw away to forbid her more of the liquid for the time being, the expression too had faded into something much softer.

"I'm really sorry," Andrea said.

Michonne shook her head at her, setting her face the best way she could to show that she wasn't going to budge on whether or not they'd have this discussion at this moment—if ever.

"Don't be sorry," Michonne said. "Sleep."

"Is he…?" Andrea asked.

Michonne didn't know exactly what the tail end of that question was, left unasked, but it was either going to be a question to ask if he was dead or to ask if he was there—or coming. The answer to all of those questions, at the moment, was unnecessary.

And from the look on Andrea's face, it was the last two that she was worried about.

"He's not here," Michonne said. "But—I am. Sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

And, to seal what she was saying, Michonne settled back into her spot, a little more comfortably than before, and she dared to rest her arm across Andrea, barely touching her in what might be some semblance of an affectionate holding.

It seemed to be enough, because Andrea did quiet and she did sleep.

And, eventually, so did Michonne.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne eased her way out of the position that she was holding and got off the prison cot as quietly as was humanly possible—though the cot felt like it was the squeakiest one in the whole of the prison, so she didn't feel too successful.

She shook her hands, trying to promote blood flowing through them once more, and surveyed the prison cell in the dim light of the morning, the only outside light being that which flooded in through a small window in the upper part of the wall and across the corridor from the cell.

She felt hungover. She felt hungover and faintly like she'd been hit by a bus.

Andrea was sleeping. She'd slept through the night. She'd slept through Carol coming in to check on things, and she'd slept through Michonne's moving around to escape the position she was in. Michonne was going to mark it down to the fact that she needed the sleep.

After all, she'd been conscious. She'd been aware of Michonne's presence. She'd been somewhat aware of what had happened—at least what had happened some time back between them, when Michonne had left Woodbury without her. She'd remembered him. There seemed to be no real cognitive damage there.

Maybe she just needed the sleep, and maybe she just needed to enjoy it uninterrupted and in peace.

Michonne needed the bathroom and she needed something to eat.

She dug around in her bag, found one of the scarves that she carried with her, and tied it on the cot's post where Andrea would see it if she woke up and looked around. It was the same sign they'd used when they'd travelled together and one of them had to leave the camp. Michonne used the scarves and Andrea used one of the several handkerchiefs she used to tie her hair up in place of lost hair ties. The sign meant that they were gone, of their own free will, and they'd return.

It was a sign not to be alarmed. It was a sign that, even though you were alone, you wouldn't remain that way.

Michonne thought it might be best to leave it for Andrea.

Immediately out of the cell, Michonne walked with determination out of the prison and toward the back area that they'd necessarily converted into make shift bathrooms for the time being. She'd overheard the discussion that they'd be able, someday, to have showers and everything else running in the space, but now wasn't the time for that.

Now they would have to fix what the Governor had destroyed—all of it—and they'd have to focus on preparing for when he came back.

 _She hoped they realized that he was coming back. And if he didn't? She'd find him._

When she'd finished up, Michonne directed her steps down toward the area where the Governor had been kind enough to try to destroy their fences. She surveyed the damage. It wasn't too bad. It wasn't as bad as he'd hoped it would be, that much was clear. He'd taken out one of the gates, but they had another—and they could reinforce that with something better than the second gate at any rate. He'd taken out one of the watch towers too. But they had another of those and they could also improvise something there.

Essentially, the man had succeeded in doing very little in comparison to what he'd probably wanted to do.

And, on top of that, he'd exposed himself for exactly what he was—a psychopath.

Michonne had seen it. She'd _felt_ it. But it seemed that it took most people quite some time to get where she seemed to get in a hurry. The man had never felt right to her, not since she'd first laid eyes on him. He didn't seem the kind to be trusted.

 _Even if Andrea had trusted him._

Andrea told Michonne, though, that she didn't trust anyone. She didn't trust a soul. And that wasn't entirely a false statement.

Since this thing had started? Whatever it was? Michonne certainly wasn't the person she used to be. She wasn't the person that she'd started this whole thing as.

It had turned her world upside down as much as it had anyone's. In fact, maybe it had changed hers more than other people's—but she wasn't comparing scars. It wouldn't matter anyway. Loss was loss. Destruction of life as you knew it was destruction of life. There was no need in getting hung up on who had it worse or who had it better.

After all, to the little girl losing her pony, it was a tragedy—even if it was a tragedy steeped in luxury.

Since this whole thing had started?

Michonne had found it hard to trust anyone. It had taken her a long time, truthfully, to even trust Andrea. And, depending on how one was to look at it, that hadn't exactly worked out perfectly for her.

But she was trying. She was going to try.

She'd reasoned with herself that the reason Andrea had stayed in Woodbury—the real reason, and the reason that she could see only when she looked at it from outside of her own hurt—was that Andrea needed people. She needed a sense of community. She needed to be surrounded by people to feel secure.

Even if she loved Michonne as much as she'd once said she did? She needed other people around.

That's where they differed. Michonne didn't need anyone.

 _She told herself that and even she knew that was a lie._

She didn't need people in the same way as Andrea did, but she did need them. She needed them just as much as anyone else might. She simply wanted to teach herself not to need anyone.

And she'd done pretty well at that—right up until she'd met Andrea.

 _Her world had been turned upside down more than once since this whole thing started—whatever it was._

But Michonne understood, now, that Woodbury had offered Andrea that and she'd taken it, fearing the going alone again. She'd taken it, desiring the security of its walls over the near-death that their lifestyle had given her.

The prison, if they fixed it? The prison could give her that too.

 _And this time? Michonne wasn't leaving. She wasn't going to walk away. She knew, now, that it was worth it to her to learn to live with people again if that's what it was going to take to give Andrea what she wanted—what she needed._

None of the people here, at least, seemed like psychopaths.

Some of them seemed a little crazy, perhaps, but Michonne was no stranger to insanity. She'd had a few rounds with it herself. Crazy, if it was harmless to everyone but the person suffering from it, she could tolerate.

Maybe, even, she could learn to like some of the people here.

Maybe, even, she could start to relax here.

Maybe she, too, could learn once again to like being surrounded by people.

And if she could? She'd learn to do it—for Andrea.

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Andrea jerked when she felt the cold scrape against her skin. It was a gentle scrape, very unlike what her brain told her it might be, but she jerked nonetheless.

As soon as she did, though, and woke fully to gasping in air—a move which caused enough pain to make her barely able to keep the breath she'd drawn—she opened her eyes and heard the familiar voice.

"It's OK," Carol said. "It's OK. Relax. I'm just going to change these bandages. They're leaking a little."

Andrea calmed almost immediately, though her heart took its own time in stopping the pounding that it had begun with being snatched out of her resting state.

She'd thought the whole thing was a dream. She'd thought, honestly, that it was a hallucination. Maybe it was the kind of thing that happened before you died—they said you were surrounded by your loved ones. They said that those you cared about came back—they came to help you over. Maybe it was possible that you also dreamed you were taken out of the situation you were in. Maybe you dreamed that you were safe and comfortable—and you could rest.

And in the rest came your final rest.

Now, though, her head felt clearer than it had—and it didn't feel like a dream.

She looked around. She was in a prison cell. She remembered Michonne telling her that they were at the prison.

Her eyes, slightly blurry at the moment, focused on the bars near the foot of the bed. Tied, in plain sight to her, was a scarf that she found immediately familiar.

 _Michonne was here. She was still here. She'd stepped away, but she was coming back. Maybe she'd gone for breakfast. Maybe for water. She was coming back._

Andrea focused then on Carol, not feeling quite up to trying to put to spoken words all the silent ones that were rolling through her mind at the moment. Carol sat in a chair, next to the edge of the bed, and carefully she was cleaning and wrapping Andrea's wrists.

 _She'd almost tried to pull her own hands off with the handcuffs to escape. She'd barely escaped at all._

Apparently her wrists were not better for her efforts. She'd understood, in the moment of panic that had washed over her, how it had been that Merle had come to saw his own hand off with a rusty hacksaw. She'd always wondered, once she'd found out what happened to him, how he'd had the resolve to do such a thing—such a horrible thing—but in the moment, waiting for Milton to turn, unsure if she'd be able to get her hands on the pliers and if they'd even serve as a useful weapon for anything, she'd understood how it was that you took any way out that you could.

She'd been basically trying to pull her own hands off.

"Michonne?" Andrea asked Carol.

Carol looked at her and smiled.

"She was outside," Carol said. "Walking the fences. She's been here all night. I think she just wanted to stretch her legs a little. Are you fully awake?"

Andrea nodded and sucked in a breath at the pain she felt.

"Headache?" Carol asked.

"Everything," Andrea said, realizing that her voice sounded like she was bleating more than speaking. She'd screamed—toward the end? The last few moments she could clearly remember? She'd screamed. She didn't know if he might come or if anyone might come, but she'd screamed to try to draw someone there.

"I'll get you something," Carol said.

"No," Andrea said quickly. "No—I'm fine."

Carol hummed at her and finished what she was doing, rewrapping Andrea's wrists. Without saying anything, she moved the covers and checked several other bandaged places.

Andrea didn't remember, exactly, where all the injuries had come from, and she thought that she should probably be grateful for that.

When Carol finished, Andrea succumbed to her will and let her check her blood pressure and temperature and everything else that was apparently on her mental check list. They guarded silence the whole time, and finally Andrea laughed a little to herself when Carol, the serious expression she'd worn while attending to her work still in place, frowned at the thermometer.

"I'm not going to live?" Andrea asked.

Carol looked at her. The expression on her face dissolved into the lighter one she'd worn when she'd first spoken, and she nodded.

"You'll live," she said. "But—you do have a fever. And that means? Infection probably. Hershel's going to want to know about that."

"Hershel?" Andrea asked, smiling to herself.

It was strange to realize that she was in the prison. She was in the prison and everyone was there. Everyone that she'd spent some time being upset with because she thought they'd abandoned her—they were all there. And she wasn't upset anymore.

"Who do you think patched you up?" Carol asked.

She offered Andrea a water bottle with a straw in it.

"This isn't the best water, probably, but it's clean," Carol said. "I'll bring you some fresh when I go to get Hershel. Do you think you could eat?"

Andrea groaned.

"I can try," she said. "I'm not really starving."

"I'll bring you something," Carol said. "You can try it, and if you can't eat it, you're not going to hurt my feelings."

She smiled.

"Beth cooked today—if you can't eat it? You'll be just like everyone else," Carol said.

"Can I—get up?" Andrea asked.

Carol hummed and then shook her head.

"Nope," she said. "Not until Hershel visits. But then? Maybe Michonne could take you out?"

Andrea nodded slightly, accepting Carol's prescription.

"Thank you," Andrea said.

Carol hummed.

"I never got to tell you," Carol said. "At the farm? Thank you."

Andrea nodded her head again, not quite sure how to respond.

"We're glad to have you back," Carol said before she took the bottle of water she intended to replace and everything else with her that she was cleaning out of the cell, and started out to run whatever errands she had to run.

"Thank you," Andrea responded after her.

Even though part of her, the part that remembered how they'd acted when she'd come before—and that was before he'd decided to try to take the prison down, something he'd apparently failed at but no doubt at least tried—wondered if they were really glad to have her back...if they were all glad to have her back.

It was hard to imagine, at this point, that any of them could be.

She worried, even, that Michonne might wish she'd never come back—and for as much as she anticipated the woman's return to the cell, promised by the scarf tied to the bedpost, she almost feared it just as much. She feared finding out from Michonne what had happened when he'd come to the prison—what she'd tried to stop from happening—and she feared the conversation she knew would eventually have to happen between the two of them.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I just wanted to let everyone know that this does not go with the show. I'll be using bits and pieces, here and there, of the show, but most of it will be subject to change to suit the story. I'm sorry if that bothers you.**

 **I'll also admit that some characters, simply to make them fit this world and this story, will be somewhat OOC, depending on how you view the characters.**

 **At any rate, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Do you remember me?" Hershel asked when he appeared at the cell door what seemed like an eternity after Carol had left the space.

Andrea smiled at him.

"Hershel," she said. "Of course—I haven't been gone that long, have I?"

He laughed to himself and hobbled into the cell. He reached to move a chair just as Andrea tried to get up to help him and he waved her back down.

"I don't know if you realize the extent of your injuries," he said. "But—there are definitely signs of some head trauma."

Andrea didn't respond for a moment. There wasn't much that she could say, at any rate. She remembered more than she wanted to remember, but she'd forgotten a good deal as well.

Beth came in, just on Hershel's heels, carrying a box and Hershel waved her to put the box down beside him. Andrea smiled and spoke to her…nothing more than a simple greeting. The look that she got from Beth, though, was more like she'd spoken to her in some foreign language, and Beth didn't respond verbally at all before taking her leave of Hershel and exiting the cell.

It only took a second to tell what Hershel had in the box—medical supplies.

"She hates me," Andrea said.

"Nobody hates you," Hershel said. "I told you—and I meant it and I mean it now—that you belong with us. We're family."

Andrea felt like she could barely breathe—and although that feeling was pretty common to her at the moment, it was worse now.

"Not me," Andrea said. "Nobody wants me here."

"Everybody wants you here," Hershel said, commenting to himself as much as he was to her.

He went about doing everything he intended to do to her, and Andrea left him alone about it. It was only when he made it clear that he had the full intention of starting an I.V. for her that she interrupted him.

She shook her head at him.

"I don't want that," she said.

"I'm declaring you unfit to know what you want," he commented. "I have my orders—do whatever it takes to get you back in good shape. You need the fluid and the antibiotics. The pain medicine is just a special gift from me."

"So everyone can hate me more when someone needs it," Andrea commented.

Hershel laughed to himself.

"This came from Woodbury," he said. "Glenn brought it. The people sent it with you. It's as much yours as it is anyone else's. We can only hope you'll save what's leftover with us should we need it."

Then it was Andrea's turn to laugh to herself.

"You won't give up, will you?" She asked.

He smiled at her.

"In a lot of ways, no," Hershel said. "I won't let you give yourself over to feeling sorry for yourself. You could've given up last night. I thought you might. But you didn't. So—maybe you won't give up either."

Andrea hummed, the relief from the pain medication almost instantly taking over for a moment and making her realize exactly how much she was just pushing the sensations of pain out of her mind for the moment.

"You'll be feeling at least a little better soon," Hershel said.

Andrea didn't try to hide the expression of relief she knew was already flowing over her, and she felt herself relax even as Hershel moved to examine her more thoroughly.

"I'm not wearing pants," she said, moving to push down the blanket even as Hershel went to move it. He laughed to himself.

"Who do you think cut them off of you?" Hershel asked. "I may have been a veterinarian, but I won't be offended by a lady in her underwear."

Andrea felt sorry for even protesting it in the first place, but it was a knee jerk reaction and she wasn't sure, with the sudden invasion of her brain by the pain medication, that she was able to really make the sense that she wanted to make.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Hershel asked.

"Mmm mmm," Andrea hummed.

"I'm not going to ask you for details that you don't want to give," Hershel said. "I would appreciate, though, your honesty about what happened to some degree. At least let me know that I'm treating things properly?"

"Ok," Andrea breathed out.

He pulled the blankets back enough to reveal everything there that was bandaged.

"These marks," Hershel said. "I'm not going to touch it—not until it needs to be cleaned," he said quickly when Andrea instinctively moved away from him. "They look like scratches, until I realized there's a matching set on the other thigh."

"Blades," Andrea said.

"Razors?" He asked.

Andrea hummed.

"And this?" Hershel asked, pointing to another bandage.

Andrea closed her eyes to it for a moment.

"You don't have to go into detail," Hershel said. "But that's…while I'm here the bandage needs to be changed."

Andrea didn't try to hide her dislike at the idea of having the injury cleaned, but she succumbed to letting him do it, settling herself into the mattress so that he could reach it better. He peeled back the bandage and she lifted just enough to be able to see the marks—she hadn't seen them since he'd done them, and she'd barely seen them then.

"Is it just a burn or was it a cauterized wound?" Hershel asked. Andrea hissed at him as he cleaned it, but she knew that he was being as gentle as he could.

"Burn," she said through gritted teeth. "Burn—the room? It was a torture chamber. Something—something like a torture chamber. He had it set up for Michonne. He got me—I was coming to warn you all. I was coming to warn you that he was coming and—he caught me. So…"

She stopped talking and Hershel stopped what he was doing, looking at her for a moment.

"So?" He asked. He pressed her to continue speaking. "Go ahead."

"So?" Andrea echoed. "So what's there to say? I think he wanted—he wanted to kill me but he wanted…I don't know…to make a show of it? He just ran out of time. He got called away and—when he came back? He left me with Milton. He left him injured. So Milton could take care of the job."

"So he was burning something like a brand," Hershel said, really talking to himself more than to Andrea.

She hummed.

"It's an M," Hershel said. "And…a T?"

"I think it's the start of an I," Andrea said. "He didn't finish it."

"M-I?" Hershel asked.

He hummed with realization and returned to caring for the wound to rebandage it with the fresh bandages.

"He was writing her name," Hershel said.

Andrea hummed.

"Yeah," she said.

"He was branding you with her name?" Hershel asked, but Andrea wasn't sure if she was meant to respond to the obvious question.

"I think he was going to—never mind," Andrea said.

Hershel didn't press her to continue with her train of thought.

"It'll heal," Hershel said. "But—I think that's where most of the infection is coming from. That and your wrists and hands. Did he…?"

"I did that," Andrea said.

"We got the cuffs off," Hershel said. "All this came from the cuffs?"

Andrea hummed at that too.

"You have at least two broken ribs," Hershel said. "Maybe more? Head injury—but that doesn't seem to be slowing you down much. How's your vision?"

"A little," Andrea said.

Hershel pressed at her.

"Pain here?" He asked. Apparently she made a face.

Andrea laughed to herself.

"Pain anywhere if you're pressing," she said. "But—it's not bad. Don't worry about it."

"That's what my job is right now," Hershel said. "I'm supposed to be worried about it. Have you eaten yet?"

Andrea hummed in the negative.

"Carol's supposed to bring me—something," Andrea said.

"Eat it when she does," Hershel said.

"I don't really feel like…" Andrea said, but she never got to finish.

"That's why I want you to eat it," he said. "What I gave you? It's probably going to make you a little sick to your stomach. Eating might help that not be so bad. I want you to eat as much as you can when she brings it."

Andrea sighed, winced at her efforts to draw in more breath than her ribs really wanted to allow, and then agreed with him.

"Fine," she said. "I'll eat it. Whatever I can. Can I get up sometime?"

"Not just yet," Hershel said. "Let what I gave you do its job. Rest some. Later? If you're feeling OK and you still want to move around? I don't see anything wrong with it. Someone can take you out, maybe? Michonne…"

"Isn't going to want to be taking care of me," Andrea said. "Nobody's going to want to be stuck taking care of me. I'm pretty sure I can walk on my own."

Hershel stared at her and then he looked somewhat amused.

"I'm sure you can to," he said. "At any rate, I'm going to be taking care of you. Carol's going to be taking care of you—she's already made that clear. And Michonne? She'd been pacing outside my cell for fifteen minutes before I came in here to make sure that I remembered that you needed me to come in here. She's quiet, but she's waiting just outside the cell right now. She won't mind taking care of you."

Andrea felt a catch. She hadn't realized that Michonne was that close by. She hadn't realized that she'd heard everything, and she certainly hadn't thought that the woman would be concerned enough—especially after what Andrea had done—to want to hang about and make sure that everything was taken care of.

Hershel smiled at her and fixed the blankets back the way they'd been, apparently done with his inspection for the moment.

He patted Andrea's arm above the bandaged area that covered the wounds around her wrists.

"I won't speak for everyone," Hershel said, "but I'm happy to have you back. I'm sure that everyone else is too. But I know that Michonne is happy to have you here. She's said more to me in a day and a half than she has since she arrived."

He paused a second before he started again, his face taking on a more serious expression than it had just before.

"I haven't felt right since I found out that we left you that night—on the farm," Hershel said. "We should've gone back for you. I should've made sure that you got off that farm—or that you really didn't. We shouldn't have just left you there."

Andrea felt her throat threatening to close up with emotion.

In the beginning? She'd had her own pity parties for having been left behind—once she was safe with Michonne—but then she'd taught herself to let it go. She'd tried to teach herself that it didn't matter. She told herself and everyone else that she wasn't really hurt and that she didn't hold it against a soul.

They'd done what they had to do to survive. They had to worry about themselves first. She shouldn't take it personally that she was the only one that had been left behind.

She said it didn't hurt, and she told herself that she was over it, but Merle had known that she never was—and she knew it too.

It was a hard thing to get over.

"It's OK," she said, when she felt she could speak.

Hershel hummed and shook his head slightly.

"No," he said. "It isn't. It wasn't. But—there's nothing we can do to change it now. What's done is done. The same is true about whatever happened—whatever it was—between you and the Governor. We're your family. This is your home now. That's all there is to it. And—I'm asking you to let me help take care of you now, when you need it, to make up for…at least as much as I can…what happened at the farm that night."

Andrea shook her head at him, but she honestly couldn't bring herself to speak at the moment.

He patted her arm again.

"Do it for an old man that wants a clean conscience?" Hershel asked, his lips curling slightly with a smile.

Still unable to find words, Andrea simply nodded her head enough to let him know that she'd let him do whatever—whatever he felt he needed to do—so that he'd feel better. And, by extension, so that she'd feel better too.

Hershel got up, pulled his crutches back to him, and then looked over at Andrea once more.

"Eat whatever you can," he said. "Try to keep it down, but let me know if the medicine makes you too sick? And—for now? Just rest. We'll talk later about getting up and getting back at it, OK? There's time for that, and there are enough people here for you to take it easy for a while."

Andrea nodded her head slightly again.

"Thank you," she said finally, swallowing after the words to keep the emotions back.

"My pleasure," Hershel responded. "I'll be back. Michonne? You can come on out. She's ready to see you now. Those antibiotics should clear up anything you're concerned about."

Andrea felt the catch again because Michonne was out there—out there where she'd been the whole time, just outside her vision—and in a moment she'd be in front of her.

And Andrea had no idea what to say.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne thanked Hershel quietly for his help and moved fully out of his way so that he could leave the small space of the cell before she passed inside carrying the gruel that she was supposed to offer Andrea to eat. If whatever he'd given her might very well make her feel sick, this food wasn't going to help. If anything, it had helped Michonne consider where the closest place was that she could reasonably get rid of it without bothering anyone or hurting Beth's feelings.

Still, it was what they had and Carol, who often put herself in charge of the cooking, needed a break sometimes.

When she came in, Michonne found Andrea staring at her—she almost looked as though she'd never seen her before, and certainly as though she'd never been left alone in her company.

Michonne came in, pushed Hershel's box under the bed with her foot, and sat down in the chair that the old man had vacated.

"You need to eat this," she said. To further illustrate her point, she dipped the spoon into the mush—theoretically porridge or something of the like—and held it out toward Andrea's mouth.

"Mich—I…" Andrea started, but Michonne simply pressed her to accept the spoonful of food until she did finally take it.

"Don't spit it out," Michonne said, seeing the look cross Andrea's face. "Until dinner? This is what there is."

"I'd rather not eat," Andrea said, barely choking down the food.

"You need to eat it, you heard Hershel," Michonne said.

"Has he tasted it?" Andrea asked. "Michonne, you've made better food out of twigs."

Michonne barely kept herself from snorting.

Immediately they flooded back—some of the memories of their time together travelling. More than once they'd been down to eating anything that they could eat—and even a few things they weren't certain that they were truly able to digest. Beggars can't be choosers. Still, it was possibly true. For as slim as their choices were from time to time, it seemed like the food had never been this bad.

Of course, maybe it had been the company that made the meal.

Michonne offered Andrea another spoonful of the food and Andrea frowned at her.

"Eat this," Michonne said.

"I can feed myself, you know?" Andrea said.

"With what?" Michonne asked. She glanced at the position in which Hershel essentially had Andrea pinned if she didn't want to pull the IV out of her arm that was connected to a bag hanging from the upper bunk. "Both your hands are—chewed up."

"My wrists are messed up," Andrea said. "My hands are—virtually perfect," Andrea declared, holding up her left hand as some kind of evidence of this fact. Michonne pushed the spoon toward her again.

"Please? Eat this?" Michonne asked.

Andrea accepted the gruel, though it wasn't with the most pleased expression ever.

"I'm sorry, Mich," Andrea said.

"I've heard it before," Michonne said. "Enough times now. I don't want to hear it again."

"I've said it, but have you really heard it?" Andrea asked.

Michonne stared at her.

She might have been snarky about things. She might have said that an apology really wasn't worth a thing in this world. She might have insinuated that there was no way to really apologize for something you'd done—the damage was still there. But she didn't feel like being that way about it, because that wasn't how she really felt it about it.

Saying that would be nothing more than doing something to lash out at Andrea, doing something to hurt her, and it was clear that she didn't really need that from Michonne at the moment.

And Michonne didn't feel like she wanted to hurt her either.

"I've heard it," Michonne said. "And I don't want to hear it anymore. What's done is done. There's only now. There's no need even—discussing it anymore."

"So you're just—over it?" Andrea asked. "You were so…so mad at me. You hated me."

Michonne practically shoved another spoonful of the food into Andrea's mouth, almost gagging her with the spoon. It was she who had to utter a quick and quiet apology for that.

"I wasn't mad," Michonne said. She shook her head at Andrea's disbelieving face. "I wasn't mad," she repeated. "I was hurt. Hurt doesn't come from a place of hatred. Hurt comes from…"

Michonne broke off. She didn't want to say the word because saying the word opened her up in a way that she had been resisting opening up—even to Andrea. Honestly, maybe saying the word sooner would have avoided some of this—maybe she was at least partially to blame for some of what had happened.

"I was angry," Michonne said. "But—I'm not now. I was angry because…all that time and you couldn't just go with me? All that we went through and you couldn't just trust me?"

"Life on the road is waiting for death," Andrea said.

"All life is waiting for death," Michonne countered.

They stared at one another, but Andrea accepted the food that Michonne offered her.

"I understand," Michonne said. "I didn't then. But—I do now. You almost died on the road. You were ready to die in a meat cooler. I couldn't save you from that. I can't—without Hershel? I can't save you from this. You didn't want to go back out there and die—not when it was safe there."

Andrea looked away from her, a pretty clear indication that she'd struck something, even if it wasn't the whole truth.

"But—how long? How long did you wait before you went to bed with him?" Michonne asked, her chest tightening at her irritation over that—something she knew she had no real right to feel bothered for. "An hour? A day? How long—before you left our apartment and slept in his bed?"

"You left me," Andrea said. "You left me and—I accepted…comfort? I accepted what was offered to me. I didn't have anything…and you left me. What'd you want me to do, Mich? Just—mourn your memory after you left me? You told me I—slowed you down…and you left me. Was I supposed to just—mourn for the woman who…"

She broke off and went silent.

Michonne was surprised at the ache she could feel in the back of her throat.

"Eat," she said, pushing the spoon toward Andrea again.

"I don't want anymore," Andrea said.

"Eat," Michonne commanded once more.

Andrea looked at her and shook her head. Michonne tried to pretend that she didn't see the tears bubbling up in the woman's eyes.

"I don't want anymore," Andrea said. "You asked me to please eat—I ate. It's the first time that you—the first time that you've said please to me. But I was supposed to hold onto the memory of someone who left me—someone who told me once that they couldn't _do this_. How long was I supposed to hold that sacred? After you left? How long, Mich?"

Michonne swallowed.

"Longer than you did," she said, putting the bowl on the table near her. "Longer than—however long you waited."

She looked around.

"I told you that I couldn't do it—because you…" Michonne broke off and growled to herself.

What Andrea was referring to, or rather what they were both referring to, was one night while they'd been travelling—one night not too long before Andrea had fallen sick with whatever virus it was that had almost taken her life.

The "spooning" and "cuddling" to "stay warm" that they'd done had taken a few sharp twists and turns here and there. Even when they didn't need it to stay warm—even when they both knew they didn't need it—they pretended that they did. Andrea, honestly, could admit that she wanted the comfort it offered. Michonne hid behind the fact that she needed the warmth—never really letting herself make clear whether she meant the literal or figurative warmth that it offered.

At first? It was just innocent cuddling. And then? It was innocent kisses. After that? Innocent exploration. Until any fool would have known that what they were doing, and beyond that, what they were thinking, was anything but innocent.

And then Andrea had offered to "take care of Michonne"…and she had.

But Michonne?

She'd failed in her reciprocation, or felt like she'd failed, and she'd simply taken her embarrassment, gathered it all together, and walked away from Andrea that day declaring that she couldn't _do that_. She didn't _want_ to _do that_.

And she'd gone to get water—anything to leave the blonde there, taking in the full impact of what Michonne couldn't and wouldn't do.

Andrea had forgiven her by the time she'd gotten back—but she'd never tried to initiate anything after that again. It had been Michonne who had been forced to ask for things—for the kisses, for the _warmth_ …and Michonne didn't care to ask for things because she didn't care to admit she needed them.

"You didn't seem very interested," Michonne finished.

Andrea looked at her like she was bewildered.

"What more did you want, Michonne?" Andrea asked. "What—other signs of interest were you looking for?"

Michonne sucked her teeth.

"You were pissed then and you're pissed now…because…because I _didn't cum_?" Andrea asked. "Let's just get that straight… _that's_ why you were pissed?"

Michonne didn't respond.

"You commanded me to…" Andrea started, her voice ringing out far louder than Michonne wanted it to be if they were going to have this discussion with the prying ears of the group around. She hissed at her to quiet down.

Andrea stopped speaking and stared at her a moment before she continued, this time with her voice lower.

"You commanded me to," Andrea said. "Twice…three times? I'm sorry—but no matter how much…porn…may have led you astray, being told to get there has pretty much the opposite effect on me. But—I didn't care. You were the only one who cared, Michonne. Apparently—you're the only one that still does."

"You didn't have any problem with him…" Michonne said.

Andrea started to respond, her face screwed up in a cross between frustration and anger and Michonne put her hand up to silence her. She shook her head at her.

"Stop," Michonne said. "Stop. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I didn't. I didn't mean any of that and I…I had no right to say that. I just—I didn't mean what I said out there, and I couldn't take it back. Then you got sick—we got taken to Woodbury—and I…"

Michonne broke off.

She hadn't admitted this to anyone. She hadn't admitted it to Andrea. She almost hadn't admitted it to herself.

"I felt like I was losing you," Michonne said. "All the time—from the moment that you woke up in that place and you were…catching up with Merle. And I realized that—he had a piece of your past that I didn't have. I felt like I was losing you and—then you stayed. You stayed and you—stuck to him."

"You have talked to me more," Andrea said after a moment, "since you walked in that cell than you did for…for months, Mich. You've had more to say to me in the past few minutes than you had to say to me for months. You barked orders at me. And I took them. You told me when we were going places and where we were going…and I went. I asked you for one thing. I asked you to stay there—I asked you to stay where we were safe. And then? When you said that you couldn't? When you said we weren't safe there? I asked you tell me why. You never told me why we weren't safe there, Mich. You wouldn't—you've never opened up to me. You've never told me—anything, really. And you wouldn't tell me why we weren't safe. I thought—that you couldn't do it. You couldn't talk to me. You couldn't trust me. And—I don't think I was sure, anymore, what you wanted from me."

Michonne felt like she was drowning for a moment.

"I was right," Michonne said. "I was losing you."

"It wasn't what I wanted," Andrea said. "I never wanted that."

Michonne sat there and focused on her breathing. She focused on keeping it steady and under control. She focused on keeping it so that Andrea wouldn't notice how close she was to losing it for a moment—losing that control that she held dear. She'd always held it dear, but even more so now in a world where there was very little control left to be had.

"Me either," Michonne said. "But…what is there to do? You stayed. I left."

"Maybe we've both made some mistakes, Mich?" Andrea said. "But—we're both here now."

Michonne looked at her, nodded her head gently, and smiled to herself.

Maybe Andrea was right. Maybe they could just let go of the past and let go of past mistakes. Maybe they could start again, in some way.

But she also knew that, and this would be the hardest part for her, if they were going to do that, she was going to have to let Andrea in just as much as she wanted to be let in. She was going to have to let go of some of the control.

Still, she felt like she might be ready to do that—because she knew that she didn't want to lose Andrea again, not now—not after she'd almost lost her entirely so many times before.

Michonne leaned forward, reached out a hand and pushed past the urge to hesitate for a moment, and she rubbed her fingers across Andrea's hand—across the same one she'd been stroking the night before because it was the only place on her body she wasn't entirely afraid to touch at the moment.

"We're both here," Michonne said, nodding her head. "And—it's safe. We're both safe."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne woke up wet. At first her sleepy brain offered her the suggestion that, somehow, cell was leaking or that something in the cell was leaking. The second suggestion it offered her was that she was sweating—and she was—but it wasn't that entirely.

Andrea's fever had broken. And from the state of the sheets and the way Michonne felt, it had come back and possibly broken again.

She pushed herself up, sitting up as well as she could in the cot, and slid off the bed to be able to stand. She stretched a moment before she slipped out of the cell and wandered in the semi-darkness through the prison.

It sounded like she was one of the first awake.

Judith was awake, which meant someone was awake with her, but they were off tucked in her little "nursery" cell.

As Michonne neared the area of the prison that she thought of as the "kitchen," though that's not what it had been so many years ago—it had simply been a meeting room of some sort that had now been converted into a storage and dining space because it had a door that opened to the courtyard where they could move things inside from the fires they built out there—she heard the sounds of someone moving about and braced herself for interaction with whoever it might be.

She was relieved to see that it was Carol, still wandering around in a sleep addled state, who was getting things ready for breakfast. The woman turned at the sound of Michonne entering the space.

"Good morning," Carol said, far too cheerful for the hour.

Michonne could barely muster up a good morning of her own that didn't sound like a low pitched growl.

"Would you like some coffee?" Carol asked. "I just took this water off—it's hot. I'm about to have some. I'd…well…I'd love the company."

Michonne's knee jerk response was to refuse the offer and to slump back to her cell to take care of things with Andrea in silence—but she decided that maybe part of her efforts, if she was really going to make them, to open up to Andrea would include opening up to the people around them.

And Carol, she figured, was the best place to start since she already liked the woman better than she liked some of the others in the prison.

Michonne sat at the table—little more than a card table—that half-filled the space.

Carol smiled at her. Clearly she didn't need words to know that Michonne was indicating that she'd have coffee with her. A few moments later, the dirty water that they called coffee appeared in front of Michonne and Carol sat down across from her.

"This is nice," Carol said. "The coffee isn't really wonderful—not like what I really used to enjoy—but it's something. Are you—much of a talker in the morning?"

Michonne wanted to point out that she hadn't felt like much of a talker in some time. Before all of this? Before—everything happened? She'd been a veritable chatterbox. She'd had friends—back when she had those friends that didn't even exist any longer—that had made jokes about how she never could quite shut up.

These days? It felt a lot harder to make words come out of her mouth than it once had.

"Not a morning person," Michonne said. "But—thanks for the coffee."

Carol's face fell slightly.

"I'll try," Michonne said, somewhat apologetically. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, Carol just wanted someone to talk to. It wasn't that hard to imagine, though it was almost sad that she might be desperate enough for "over coffee banter" that she'd sit down with Michonne and try to chat before the sun had fully risen in the sky.

"Did you need something?" Carol asked, settling in her chair again and putting a valiant effort into drinking the weakened instant coffee in front of her. "Besides the coffee? Breakfast won't be ready for a while…"

"Andrea," Michonne said. "Her fever broke. I was hoping I could get some water? Maybe—find a change of clothes? I think…"

She broke off.

"I know we have some clothes," Carol said. "They might not fit perfect but…and there's water. I can warm some up so she doesn't have to wash with cold. We all feel better when we're clean. Didn't Hershel say she could get out today?"

Michonne nodded and did her best to stomach some of the coffee. She'd once loved coffee too. Not as much as some of the coffee fanatics that she'd known, but she'd enjoyed a good cup of it now and again. This coffee? It was wet, it was hot, it vaguely reminded her of coffee—it wasn't a good cup of it, but it was the best that they had at the moment.

"You—really care about her," Carol said. "You're very good to her."

Michonne hummed, growing uncomfortable at the moment. She pushed back her chair and stood up.

"We do what we can," Michonne said. "But—it doesn't mean we always do what we should."

Carol stared at her, once she'd gained her feet.

"I'm sorry," Carol said. "I didn't mean to…"

Michonne shook her head at her.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Michonne said. "And—I do care. I just—forgot to leave the scarf and she'll wonder where I am if she wakes up."

It was partially true. They were both conditioned, or at least at one time they had been, to the markers of their intentional departure from a space. She doubted, though, that Andrea would be as upset by losing her in the prison as she might have been by losing her in the woods.

"I'll bring you the water," Carol said. "I won't get it too hot. And—I'll bring some clothes."

Michonne thanked her and took her leave of the woman, heading back to the cell to see if Andrea was awake.

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"I'm not saying I didn't like it," Carol protested. "I'm saying that—I just…"

"Didn't like it," Daryl finished. He took a drag on his cigarette and slid closer to the edge of the guard tower, dropping his feet over the side of it. It was late enough that no one would notice that they were up there together—that she wasn't taking guard duty alone—but Carol was pretty sure that most of them knew by now what was going on.

After all, it wasn't until she and Daryl had discovered the sanctuary of the guard tower that they'd begun to offer to take the night shifts so quickly that no one else—and that mostly meant Glenn and Maggie—ever got a shot at them. They figured the young couple, already engaged or married or whatever you might want to call it in this world, had more than enough opportunity to be together. They didn't mind robbing them of the location.

And, luckily, if anyone knew what was going on, they were choosing not to say anything. Carol didn't mind, one way or another, who knew about their relationship, but she didn't want to push anything on Daryl. It was, after all, very new to him.

But she couldn't help but notice the little things—like the fact that now he didn't make a move to put a shirt on when they were done. And he didn't have a problem sitting with his back to her, fully aware that she could see the scars he'd once tried desperately to hide from her.

Yes, Carol noticed the little things.

"I liked it," Carol said, laughing to herself. She wasn't going to bother to get dressed entirely if he wasn't, so she simply wrestled back into her underwear and put on her shirt to avoid being too cold from the breeze that kept seeming to blow against her. "I guess—I'm not that adventurous? If there's a wall, and there's a place on the floor—or a table's fine too, really. I guess I'd rather just skip the whole wall thing entirely. I'm boring."

Daryl snorted.

"Not boring," he said. "Truth?"

Carol hummed and slid closer to him, dropping her own feet over the side of the watchtower.

"Didn't like it neither," he said.

She laughed to herself.

So much for adventurous love making. Maybe it was better that they were both boring. At least, if they could both admit that they hadn't liked their first foray into trying something hot and steamy against the watchtower wall, they didn't have to worry about disagreeing about it later. And—even if they were boring—at least they were the only two that had to know it.

"They made good progress today," Carol said. "Fences are almost repaired."

Daryl hummed and scrubbed the spent cigarette on the floor of the guard tower next to him before he dropped the butt over the side and watched it fall for as long as he could before the darkness swallowed it up.

"Repaired. Ain't no stronger. Don't want Walkers pushing in? Gotta do something more," Daryl said. "Michonne had—some pretty good ideas. About outside the gate?"

"Doable good ideas?" Carol asked.

Without asking if she "could," something she might have done before, Carol took a chance and leaned her head against his shoulder. He pulled away, looked at her, but then he moved back into position. She tried again and, this time, he didn't pull away.

"Could be," Daryl said.

He sighed.

"She wants to—go out," he said. "Lookin' for the Governor."

Carol remained quiet, sensing in the way that he'd left his words hanging that he wasn't done speaking. He was thinking. He was chewing over, perhaps, something that had happened and he was doing it partially out loud, but he wasn't done yet. She knew she was right when he spoke again.

"She thinks—we oughta go out. Find him before he comes back here. People—might trickle in here from Woodbury, but they ain't looking for him. Not after that stunt he pulled—shooting everyone dead on the highway? She thinks if we found him, we'd get him with his pants down—so to speak. Kill him and keep him from killing anyone else," Daryl said.

"You sound like you don't think it's a good idea," Carol said.

"You do?" Daryl asked.

Carol hummed. She wasn't sure if it was or it wasn't. It was an idea. Right now? It seemed like they had done everything on nothing more than "ideas" without asking if they were good or bad. Everything was so quickly done that there was hardly time to waste trying to figure out if something was worth going with. If they had anything at all, they had to go.

"Does she think she knows where he is?" Carol asked.

"That's the thing," Daryl said. "She don't got a clue. Come to me today, asking if I thought I could track him. Asking if I could—help her. Said she'd do the dirty work because she's got a bone to pick with him. You—reckon that bone's Andrea?"

Carol sat up and shifted herself around.

"I'm sure Michonne wants him to pay for what he did to Andrea," Carol said. "He could've killed her. He would've killed her. She's alive, but she's not out of the woods. Not entirely. And—well, Michonne would probably want to make him pay for that."

"Why, though?" Daryl asked.

Carol laughed to herself.

"Because Michonne loves Andrea," Carol said. "And—Andrea loves Michonne."

Daryl eyed her. She wasn't sure, if things were going the way that she somehow suspected they might be going, if he might very well have more questions for her regarding their relationship—she wasn't sure how familiar Daryl was with that sort of thing and she didn't want to imagine what he might have picked up from his family, not considering what she knew of Merle.

"Andrea was with the Governor," Daryl said.

Carol hummed.

"And I was with Ed," she countered. "I guess we're all allowed a few lapses in good judgment."

Daryl chewed his lip, still staring at her.

"You think they're…?" Daryl asked, letting it trail off. He raised his eyebrows at Carol in an almost laughable way.

"Not right now," she said, shaking her head. "But…I mean…"

She broke off and shook her head.

"But I'm not going to ask," she said. "It's—none of our business. Right? You don't want people minding—well—minding our business, do you?"

Daryl didn't respond. Carol let it drop. There wasn't any need, honestly, to press him one way or another. What they had was fine as it was.

"Do you think you could track him?" Carol asked.

"Maybe," Daryl said. "I mean—I could try."

Carol hummed.

"I think," she said, "that it's important to try—for Michonne—but, maybe for all of us too."


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Here we go, a little piece more here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"You wanted to go outside, so now you're going outside," Michonne said. "Everything is working out just like you want it to."

"I can walk on my own, Mich," Andrea said. "I'm not—completely reliant upon you."

Michonne bit the inside of her mouth. What Andrea was really saying was that she didn't want to be completely reliant upon her. And it was a message that Michonne was getting loud and clear. It was a message that she'd been getting from her since she'd met her.

"Andrea—you almost died. You almost bled out. You're building back up your strength from that and you're getting over an infection that could've killed you too," Michonne said. "I don't think that anyone—and I'm including myself in that in case you're not clear—is going to hold it against you if you need to lean on someone while you go for a walk."

She wasn't going to point out that Andrea was looking at her like a petulant child at the moment.

"I walked fine on my own yesterday," Andrea responded.

"The distance of a cell and a half," Michonne said. "It's going to be farther than that to get you outside. And you did that by holding onto the bars at intervals. I know. I saw you."

A momentary standoff between them and Michonne sighed.

"Would you—can I ask you to tell me what's really wrong? So we can—maybe skip all of this and go straight to that?" Michonne asked.

It was going to take a minute—a pair of evasive eyes told her that—but that was the beauty of the moment. Michonne had all the time that she needed to wait out Andrea. It wasn't like Andrea was going anywhere, or at least she wasn't going anywhere fast.

"I—don't want to go out there looking like…like I can't even walk on my own, Michonne," Andrea said. "I don't want them looking at me like I'm going to be a burden on everyone. Like I'm not going to contribute anything…I'm just a drain. I'm already a drain on resources here."

Michonne frowned and leaned back against the concrete wall. Andrea had been awake probably forty eight hours—or at least somewhere in the vicinity of it—and Michonne felt like she'd heard at least twice that many variations on this same theme.

And, maybe, she was partially to blame for that. Maybe, in her own way, she'd done a fair amount of dragging Andrea down—even before Woodbury.

"If someone has something to say about what you _use_ around here, then I can go on runs and get whatever they need," Michonne said. "But nobody is going to say anything."

"Then I'm just—owing it to you," Andrea said.

Michonne raised her eyebrows at Andrea.

"You don't owe me anything. And nobody is going to say anything at any rate," Michonne said. "You're going to go out there, see the sun and get a little—Vitamin D—and then you're going to talk to some of these people…your friends, your family…and you're going to see that they don't think the way that you think they do."

"I don't have any family left, Michonne," Andrea said.

 _Well—at least she didn't say friends_.

Michonne sighed. She had already decided that she was going to give Andrea this. If she wanted or needed, or whatever it was, to slip into some kind of depression over what had happened—or over what she thought was going to happen—then she'd let her have it, but only for a little while.

After all, Hershel had warned that simply the medication he'd given her might affect her mood, and it wasn't like the past few days, or even the past few months, had been the greatest time of the woman's life.

"Get up," Michonne said. "Get up and let's go. Walk on your own or lean on me. I'm going to be right here, either way."

Andrea sighed, but she did get up. She didn't refuse Michonne's help in standing and Michonne stood with a hand hovering near her elbow while Andrea stretched to relieve some of the tightness that residing mostly in the cot had caused.

Slowly they made their way outside, just as Michonne had promised, and Andrea did exactly what she said she'd do—she walked out on her own, even though Michonne stayed close by her side in case she might find that her body wasn't quite ready for the exertion that she was going to demand of it.

Both of them shaded their eyes as they stepped into the courtyard area. Coming from that much darkness into the bright sunlight was an adjustment for everyone and most of them walked around squinting now that sunglasses weren't the common thing that they used to be.

"He did all this?" Andrea asked, looking around.

Michonne scanned the prison yard from where they stood. The guard tower was the most obvious sign of his visit to the prison and of his attempt to destroy it and destroy everyone there. Most everything else had been repaired by the hustling actions of everyone that could lend a hand in any area. There was much to be done, and they desperately needed to reinforce things and prepare themselves for some kind of possible future attack, but they'd taken care of most of the absolutely immediate concerns.

Still, Michonne didn't feel that this was the time to point out that things had actually been much worse than they seemed to Andrea at the moment.

"Yeah," she said. "He did."

"Did he kill anyone?" Andrea asked.

She looked like she feared the answer. Michonne shook her head gently.

"No one here," Michonne said. "Merle…but that was before. He didn't even hurt anyone but you."

Andrea swallowed and nodded her head slightly. Michonne tried not to think too much about what might be going on inside of the woman's head.

Before they could continue speaking, and before Michonne could suggest that they consider going to sit somewhere so that Andrea didn't tire herself out too quickly, Carol came walking up to them. Luckily, too, she seemed to know that a smile was the best expression she could probably wear for the moment.

"Look at you!" She called as she approached. "It's so good to see you up!"

She stepped around Michonne and hugged Andrea. Andrea returned the action.

"You look good," Carol said when she pulled away. "Your color is coming back. You look good."

It was true. She was still pale, but she wasn't as pale as she had been. It was still written all over her that she was in pain, and that she was refusing further pain medication, but she was looking a little less frightening and a little more like herself.

"I should've listened to you," Andrea said.

Carol shook her head and Michonne assumed that the two of them knew what they were talking about, even if she didn't have a clue what was going on.

"Don't worry about that now," Carol said. "The important thing? You're looking better. And you're home. Michonne—she's been really worried about you. It's going to be good to have her back to her old self."

Michonne caught a quick smile and wink from Carol herself that let her know that she was supposed to be in on something, even though she wasn't. Maybe Carol was just trying to play her up? Maybe she was trying to be kind to both of them? After all, Andrea might feel that she was on the outside of the proverbial social circle, but Michonne didn't imagine that she was too far in at this point either.

Andrea just offered Carol the best smile she could, though it didn't look too sincere at the moment.

"Everyone's mad at me," Andrea said to Carol.

Carol shook her head.

"No," she drew out. "No—we're not. I'm not. I don't know anyone who is. In fact…"

Carol turned, without explanation, and walked off in the direction from which she'd come, over near the guard tower where, in the bottom storage space of the tower, they had something of a tool room they were working from in their construction efforts, and when she came back, she was practically dragging Glenn by the arm.

"Now you don't have to go look for her," Carol was saying as she walked up again. "Look who I found."

Even Michonne could see that Glenn looked a little uncomfortable—but she was going to be the practical one and say that it, more than likely, came from a place of not quite knowing what to say to Andrea after they all knew what she'd been through. People had been, from what Michonne observed, equally awkward with Glenn and Maggie after their run ins with the Governor.

Glenn smiled, even if it was a slightly awkward smile.

"How—uh—how are you feeling?" He asked.

Andrea nodded at him.

"It's—good to have you back," Glenn said.

He looked it Carol in the same way that a child might look to their mother in a social situation to see if they were saying the right thing in the right way. She looked pleased with him.

"I was—we were discussing going on a run," Glenn said. "Somewhere close by for some things that we need for—you know—the projects we're doing."

"But as long as they're going out," Carol said, "and as long as they're going to be looking for a truck to bring things back, it makes sense to get as much as they can in any run."

"So—did you want anything?" Glenn asked. "Or—need anything in particular? Michonne…you too."

With the last few words he directed his attention toward Michonne and she had to admit that she almost felt a little surprised being addressed in regard to something that didn't have to do with the Governor or something about Woodbury. She was taken aback so much, in fact, that she couldn't even think of anything that she might want or need.

 _Of course, she'd had an odd feeling of contentment all morning. It was the strange sort of feeling that she got, from time to time, in her life where she simply felt like, for at least a moment, she couldn't think of much that she could even want or need to make her life any better than it was._

Andrea looked caught off guard as well. She stammered out some sounds, but then she shook her head.

"I don't need anything," she said. "I'm—I've got everything that I need."

Carol interjected then.

"They're not leaving until tomorrow," she said. "If you think of anything—there's plenty of time to put in an order if you think of something. I already said some clothes? Maybe—a few other odds and ends?"

Andrea nodded and Carol looked to Michonne.

"If you think of anything, you'll let us know?" Carol asked.

Michonne nodded and thanked Carol, the only thing that she could do at the moment.

And then Carol and Glenn both took their leave of Michonne and Andrea both with Glenn reiterating that he was glad that Andrea was back and Carol wishing them a nice walk—after all, it was a beautiful day.

After they walked off, back in the direction from which they'd come, Andrea watched them go.

"See?" Michonne offered. "They're still here."

Andrea looked at her, smiled softly, and nodded her head gently.

"It's not the same," she said. "I'm not the same. They're not the same."

Michonne hummed.

"No," she said. "It's not the same. But—that's not always a bad thing, is it? It's a new start. For you, for them. For all of us."

Andrea looked at her and held her eyes for a moment. Though she didn't look like she'd entirely abandoned the mood that she'd been holding onto inside, she did look at least a little bit lighter—though Michonne wouldn't know if it was any one thing that had brought about the change or a combination of all of them.

It really didn't matter.

"Come on," Michonne said, reaching out and putting a hand on Andrea's back. When Andrea didn't protest, she pushed her luck a little and slipped the arm the rest of the way around, catching her so that she could walk side by side with her while still offering something of a "support" should she need it. Andrea didn't protest.

It was a start.

"Let's go for that walk?" Michonne asked. "I want to see what they've done down near the gates."


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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 _There was the metallic scrape. A creak. A groan. A shrieking metallic sound._

 _It was the door. Not this door. Not the door to the room. Not the closest door. It was a door farther off. It was in the distance. Another metallic creak. A shrill sound. He was coming. He wasn't here yet, but he was coming._

 _She could barely breathe. She could barely swallow. The metallic sound meant that he was coming—he'd be there soon. And soon? She would die._

 _She moved, tried to free herself. Her feet swung free—they were loose. Her hands—something was holding her hands. No matter how hard she pulled them, all she felt was the tightness around them._

 _He was coming, and this time he'd kill her. She felt like she could hear his whistle echoing in the distance—wherever the door he moved was. He was taunting her with the whistle. He knew it would stay with her. It would be one of the last things she ever heard._

 _She didn't fear her own death—the sweet release of death—nearly as much as she feared that she would die knowing that she'd never made it. She'd been close enough to see the prison. She'd been close enough that she could've reached them, but she never did. She could've warned them._

 _Now they would all die._

 _Most would be lucky. Most would die—fast. Painless. As painless as death might be._

 _But Michonne? She needed to warn her._

 _She knew what he would do to her._

"Mich!" Andrea cried out, her own voice in the realm of reality waking her slightly from the nightmare world that she'd been trapped in. "Mich!" She gasped out again, still able to hear the metallic screech—it was closer now. She heard it again and her heart skipped a beat, almost choking her.

Her whole world shifted in the darkness.

"Shhh…" Michonne hissed, her breath blowing on Andrea's face, just next to her ear. "Shhh…I'm here."

 _I'm here._

 _How many times had she heard those words whispered in the darkness?_

 _I'm here._

 _And always they had the same effect. Even though her heart took its time slowing in its frantic pumping, she could feel herself start to relax a little. She could feel her breathing slowly slightly. Even around the pain, she could feel the words—two simple little words—having the same effect they always had._

"I'm here," Michonne repeated, her voice low and calming. Andrea felt the woman's long, thin fingers caressing her face for a moment, a humming sound low and near her ear now.

Then Michonne pulled away and the metallic screech repeated, shocking Andrea for a moment before she realized that the metallic hiss was nothing more than the sound of the mattress springs on the cot. When Michonne moved, her body weight shifting made the springs cry out.

Andrea, surprised by her own reaction, burst into something of a gasping cry at the realization that it was the springs. The metallic sound—the one that had made her heart almost stop—was the sound of Michonne being right where she wanted her to be, safe beside her on a bed in the prison.

He wasn't here, and he wasn't coming—at least, he wasn't coming right now.

Andrea hadn't told Michonne, yet, that she was terrified of when he would come. If he was out there? If he was alive? He would come—for both of them now. He'd come to finish what he started and he'd come to settle grudges that he held.

He wasn't a man to let go of a grudge. They knew that now.

Michonne lit the lamp on the bedside table and illuminated the cell enough that Andrea could see her now, sitting on the edge of the bed, frowning.

"You had a nightmare," Michonne pointed out.

Andrea ignored her and reached for the water bottle on the table. Michonne saw what she was doing and met her partway, bringing the water to her. Rather than argue, at the moment, her ability to get a drink of water on her own, Andrea accepted the assistance and tasted the water. Her mouth and throat felt parched. She wondered, honestly, if it was a side effect of the antibiotics that Hershel had forced her to accept when her fever had started to return.

"You're soaked too," Michonne said. "So—I'm guessing that means the fever broke again."

"Yeah," Andrea said, even though she knew no better than Michonne if the fever was there, wasn't there, had broken, or had never even existed.

Michonne brought a hand to Andrea's face and then trailed it around, touching the back of her neck with her fingertips—a familiar way that Andrea already knew she had for checking for fever.

"You're cool," Michonne said. "It broke. What was—do you want to talk about the nightmare?"

She'd corrected herself. They'd both learned, since they'd been together, that sometimes nightmares were just that, and sometimes they didn't want to talk about them. Other times? They'd share. Though, mostly, if Andrea was honest with herself, it had been her that had chosen to share more often than Michonne.

Andrea shook her head slightly.

"It wasn't anything," she said. "Just—him."

Michonne nodded her head slightly.

"He's not here," Michonne said. "But—I am."

Andrea frowned.

"I think it was the bed springs," she admitted.

Michonne cocked an eyebrow at her.

"They—squeak," Andrea said. "In my dream? I could hear the hinges—the doors down there? They were metal doors. The hinges—made a noise."

Michonne stared at her and then she nodded her head slightly.

"Well," she said. "The bed springs aren't dangerous, but I'm sure that there's something we can do about them? I know that—I know that some of the others don't squeak. Tomorrow? I'll ask Glenn what he did to theirs. I know they don't squeak."

Andrea shook her head at her.

"It's not a big deal, Mich," Andrea said.

"You're right," Michonne shot back quickly. "It's not a big deal. Whatever it is? It's not a big deal and I don't care for the sound either."

"I tried to get back here," Andrea said. "I wanted to warn you. Everyone—but you especially."

"The room was for me," Michonne said, rather nonchalantly as she sat, twisting her dreadlocks.

Andrea nodded.

"The room was for me," Michonne said. "And—everything he did? He was practicing on you. He was punishing you for—me."

Andrea felt herself choking up at the thought of it. She didn't want to think about him putting Michonne in the same place that she'd been. She didn't want to think about what he'd do to Michonne. He was so filled with anger for her, a pure rage almost, that she couldn't even begin to imagine what he might have done—she didn't want to.

"He would've been worse to you," Andrea said. "He wanted to hurt me, but he wanted to hurt you worse."

Michonne hummed.

"I think he knew what he was doing," Michonne said, her voice even and without expression for the moment. "He wanted to hurt me—and I think…he went about doing it the worst way that he could."

Michonne stopped the twisting that she was doing and got up. She paced what small bit she could in the cell, nervous energy taking over for a moment, and then she sat down in the chair that was left behind by Hershel from his earlier visits to clean and re-bandage everything in an effort to fight infection and keep it from getting worse.

Michonne cleared her throat.

"That burn?" She said.

Andrea stared at her, but she didn't respond. She was going to let Michonne say what she wanted to say—it seemed so seldom that Michonne was really moved to say much at all.

"He was going to burn my name into your body," Michonne said. "It wasn't about you. Not really."

"Because he was going to kill me," Andrea said.

Michonne made a face, almost of regret or something similar, and Andrea shook her head at her.

"Don't," Andrea said. "It—really doesn't bother me, Mich. I knew he was going to kill me. He told me he was going to kill me. I don't think—I don't remember even being that scared of that part. Not of the dying."

Michonne furrowed her brows at her.

Andrea swallowed and reached for the water again, but before she could reach it, Michonne offered it to her once more. She accepted it and thanked Michonne when she was done drinking what she wanted for the moment.

"I wasn't afraid of dying," Andrea said. "Not as much as—I thought I would be. I was more afraid of what—what he'd do if he got here. What he'd do to everyone—what he'd do to you."

She laughed to herself.

"I was more afraid of you dying," Andrea admitted.

And it was true. She had a strange feeling, even though she knew that it wasn't true at all, that Michonne was immortal. There were times, honestly, when Andrea had been terrified out there—wandering around with Michonne. She'd imagined, more than once, her own death. She'd imagined being killed by Walkers. She'd imagined being killed by someone out to murder her for no reason other than they wanted something that she had—even when she had nothing, a feeling leftover from when she'd walked at night with her keys between her fingers the way her father had taught her to do. She'd imagined dying of the fever that she'd had.

But she'd never imagined Michonne dying. Michonne was immortal. She was an eternal comfort of sorts. She was untouchable.

And, strangely enough, that false feeling brought a certain comfort to Andrea.

So, in the chair, his voice echoing in her ears after he'd told her what he'd do to Michonne—what he'd set up that room especially for doing to her? Andrea had realized that Michonne wasn't immortal. She was no more immortal than Andrea was, and he was going to kill her. Andrea had let her down, she hadn't reached her in time, and he was going to kill her.

And realizing that Michonne would die? That she could die? That had been terrifying in a way that Andrea couldn't even explain.

Losing her own life wouldn't hurt her—losing Michonne? And not even in the way she'd thought she'd already lost her, but really losing her?

It was arguably the most painful part of the whole experience.

Michonne got up again, quickly, and walked the tight little path that she'd made before, seized by the nervous energy again.

She stopped, but remained standing for the moment.

"That's what he was going to do," Michonne said. "To get to me? He was going to—he'd have…"

Michonne stopped, clearly unable for the moment to put the words in the order that she wanted. Andrea waited her out. She had nowhere to go, after all.

"He'd have made sure I saw that," Michonne said. "He'd have wanted me to see it."

Sensing that Michonne was overwhelmed at the moment, and knowing that she wouldn't deal well with that emotion at all, Andrea shook her head at her.

"Mich, it doesn't matter," Andrea said. "He didn't kill me. And—really? I'm fine. It—it really doesn't even hurt."

Michonne gave her a look that she was used to seeing from the woman.

"You can't lie," Michonne said. "And—I still wish you'd take the pain medication. You'd probably heal better if you weren't in pain."

"Someone else…" Andrea said.

"Is not going to come up with something more serious than this," Michonne said quickly. "And if they do? I'll find them what they need myself."

She growled low in her throat, apparently at something she thought.

"Tomorrow—you're taking it," Michonne said. "Voluntarily or not."

Andrea bit the inside of her mouth and resisted the urge to tell Michonne that she had a strange habit, sometimes, of scolding her as though she were a child instead of an adult.

"Fine, Mich," Andrea said. "But—not right now."

"Just because everyone else is asleep," Michonne countered.

Andrea smiled to herself. Not because of the medicine. Not because of anything, really, except that Michonne was talking to her. She was speaking to her as naturally as she might have before—before they'd ever laid eyes on Woodbury. In fact, she was perhaps speaking more easily with her than she had even before that.

And Andrea liked that—no matter what it was that Michonne was saying at the moment.

It felt like it had a better effect than any medication might have had.

"Everyone else is asleep," Andrea said. "We should be too. Tomorrow? I'd like to—if we can? I'd like to go outside again? Maybe—I could start helping out with something?"

"Tomorrow you can take the pain medication," Michonne said. "We can go outside. If Carol has something to do—but you're not overdoing it. It's not a race."

Andrea raised her eyebrows at Michonne.

"Says the woman who never stops?" Andrea responded.

Michonne chose to ignore that entirely.

"Do you think you can sleep?" Michonne asked. "Without the nightmares?"

She came back to the bed, settled onto the cot again, and Andrea felt her sliding close to her—the warmth of her body warming the whole of Andrea's body. She left the light burning, apparently meaning to let the lamp burn for a little.

"Tomorrow we'll fix the springs," Michonne added, snuggling deeper in beside Andrea. Andrea reached and took Michonne's arm, knowing the woman was almost reluctant to touch her, and brought it around her to rest over her body.

"I think I'll be OK," Andrea said. "I know—I do—that they're nightmares. He's not here. He's not coming—tonight. And—if you're here? I think I can sleep."

Michonne sighed, her release of breath shaking Andrea and illiciting a light squeak from the springs. It didn't, at the moment, sound nearly as horrifying as it had.

"I'm here," Michonne said. "He's not coming…and I'm here."


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"It's really sweet for you to—come up with something I can do," Andrea said.

She was sitting in a chair that Carol had brought outside for her, and she was mending clothes. It wasn't a task that she particularly enjoyed, but it was something—at least she was being told—that really needed to be done and that would help Carol out a lot. And Michonne and Hershel seemed to agree on the fact that if she was going to be doing anything for at least the next week, it wasn't going to be anything more strenuous than this so as to not stop any healing or reverse anything that had already started.

"You're helping me," Carol insisted as she walked back and forth, hanging out some of the laundry that she'd finished washing. "I know how much you used to hate laundry."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"I don't hate it," she said. "But…I don't know. Sometimes it doesn't seem—that important. You know?"

Carol stopped what she was doing, or rather she seemed to have finished it, and she dried her hands on her pants.

"No," she said. "I don't guess it is that important. Not—when you put it next to something that's going to save a life. But—it's important. Sometimes? A clean shirt…or warmed water for a bath? Or even—I don't know—even a hot meal that tastes a little better than mush? It seems like that's what's keeping us separated from the animals. It reminds us—all of us—that the world's changed, but we're still humans. We're still—we're human."

Andrea nodded her head slightly.

"Woodbury? It had all of those things and more," she said. "But—the man who ran the place turned out to be the least human human being that I've met—maybe ever."

Carol frowned at her.

"There've always been those too," Carol said. "But—we don't have to let them make us any less human, right? And—we all do what we can. I do everything I can. I pump water—for those meals and those baths. I—help mend fences and I wash clothes and I help tend injuries and babies. Sometimes I fight Walkers and sometimes I don't. Still—I bet everyone would notice if, suddenly, there was no bath water, there were no clean clothes, and food didn't get prepared."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"When it was just Michonne and me, out there?" Andrea said. "I noticed when those things weren't there. Maybe it's because they weren't there more often than they were."

Carol hummed.

"Life on the road is hard," Carol said. "We all know that. Maybe our experiences were a little different, but we all know that."

Andrea focused for a moment on the button that she was still sewing on—she was slow at this job and clumsy enough at it that she felt like she pricked her fingers more than she made progress—but she kept going until she was able to say it was on well enough to hold to most anyone's liking.

While she worked, she noticed that Daryl came up toward them—from the area down near the fence line, near the gate, where they were working outside on something that they seemed to be constructing in pieces—and he pulled Carol over to the side.

She didn't watch them, exactly, and she certainly didn't listen to what they were saying to each other, but when Carol came back over and Daryl walked back down across the prison yard, Andrea couldn't help but notice the smile on Carol's face.

"Carol…would it be—is it too much to ask if you and Daryl…" Andrea stopped, laughed at her own inability to articulate what she wanted to say so that she didn't feel too much like she was pressing a high school girlfriend to gossip with her, and then she started again. "I remember that…Daryl's always been pretty fond of you. Have things changed? And I just don't know it?"

Carol stopped, stared at her, and then she smiled softly.

"I tell you want," Carol said. "I'll tell you anything you want to know about me, and about Daryl. But—first? I want to know about you and Michonne."

Andrea felt her stomach do a flip flop.

How could she tell Carol anything about her relationship with Michonne when she wasn't entirely sure that she understood it herself? She wasn't entirely sure what she would call it if she were being forced to put a label on it. Until now? They'd just avoided labels entirely—and they might continue on that way.

"There's nothing to tell," Andrea said. "We're friends. We're—I love Michonne, very much. And—we're friends."

Carol smiled at her.

"So are Daryl and I," Carol said. "I'm going to check on Beth and Judith—I'll bring you some water when I come back."

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Michonne remembered the posts from the trip that she'd taken with Rick and it wasn't that hard, once they started discussing it, to figure out how to fashion something outside of the gates that would help to keep the Walkers from being able swarm the gates at any time. If nothing else, it allowed for easier in and out of the space—especially now that the second gate was gone—and it could make it easier for them if they had to make some kind of quick escape.

But even as they were working on the posts, Michonne kept thinking about the fact that they could alleviate at least one great concern in their lives—one great threat—if only she could lay her hands on the Governor now, when his guard was probably at its lowest, and simply do away with him.

So the work that she was doing, even though she tried to keep her mind on it and she tried to keep reminding herself of its importance, kept seeming like something of a waste of time because she felt like there were other things that they could do—other things that might even be more of a time sensitive nature.

She hated to bring it up to Daryl again, though. She'd already mentioned it to him and, though he hadn't said no exactly, he hadn't seemed thrilled with the idea. Still, out of everyone there, he'd be the most likely to go with her. He'd be the most likely to help her. After all, the Governor had killed his brother, just like he would've killed Andrea, and he hadn't really—not on such a deep level—touched the lives of anyone else at the prison.

As she thought it over, though, and wondered how in the world she might be able to bring it up again without seeming too bloodthirsty in her hurry to do something, it seemed that fate lent her a hand.

"What is that?" Glenn asked.

Everyone looked at him.

"What is that?" He repeated, shielding his eyes and looking around.

"What the hell is what?" Daryl barked back.

Glenn continued looking, as though he was searching something out, and Michonne heard something. It was thunder. It rumbled through the sky around them.

"Thunder," she said, taking the opportunity to drop a pole she was fitting into place and slip back into the fences. She kept a watch outside them to make sure that none of the Walkers threatening to come close to them got to Rick, but at the moment they seemed to have lost interest in him entirely.

"That's not thunder," Glenn said.

Daryl looked around himself.

"It don't look like thunder," he said.

Now Michonne couldn't hear the sound anymore either. It was as though all three of them, for a split moment, had different realities. And now they were all back in the same one—one had heard the thunder, one hadn't, and one had heard the not-thunder thunder clap.

"What is that?!" Glenn said quickly and loudly, just as they'd seemed to slip back into the same reality. Michonne followed where he was looking, though, and where he was pointing now and she saw what had his attention.

Just above the tree line, in the distance, the sky was growing blacker by the moment. The blackness was threatening, it seemed, to take over in a fast moving cloud.

It was faster moving than storm cloud, that was for sure.

"Smoke," Daryl said. "Smoke and a helluva lot of it. Something's burning."

Michonne swallowed, looked around her and made sure that she had her bearings straight and knew well which direction she was facing, and then she looked back at the black cloud of smoke that was spreading slowly over the sky, growing lighter in places but darker at its source.

"Woodbury," she said.

"What?" Daryl asked, looking toward her.

"Woodbury," Michonne said. "That's the direction of Woodbury. Woodbury is burning down."

He stared at her and she swallowed, her stomach churning uncomfortably at the thought.

"He's back," she said. "He came back to Woodbury."

"Looks like he ain't had much to come back to," Daryl commented.

Even with the slight dismissal, Michonne could see something on his face that her let her know that he was simply saying that. He knew exactly what was going on—and she could see some concern behind it.

She took a chance and asked to speak to him for a moment, quickly pulling him up the fences a short distance.

"He's come back to burn it down," Michonne said. "He burned Woodbury down. That's the smoke. That's the fire."

Daryl stared at her. Then he shook his head.

"You don't know that any more than I do," he said.

Michonne lowered her eyelids at him.

"And you know that as well as I do," Michonne said. "If we go now? Or go in the morning? We know he was just there. We know we'll have a better chance of finding him or at least of finding some proof of him having been there. We'll find something we can track."

Daryl stared at her.

"You mean something I can track," he said.

Michonne swallowed.

"I need your help," she admitted. "But—if you don't come with me? I'm still going to find him. And I'm going to kill him. For what he did to Andrea? For what he did to Merle? For what he'd have done to every one of us? I'm going to kill him."

"You don't know if you're going to find him," Daryl said. "Even with my help. Tracking—it don't work just anywhere unless he's leaving damn breadcrumbs or some shit."

"He's alone, he's not stable, and he's not careful," Michonne said.

She could tell that he was considering it, but she could also tell that he was reluctant. And she understood that too. At the moment they were inside the prison fences. They were safe for the moment. Whether or not he would come back, honestly, was just an assumption—it was a gut feeling for Michonne, and she knew for Andrea too, but it was just an assumption. If they went out there, though? It was very real that they were in danger from Walkers—or from whatever else it might be that crossed their paths.

Michonne hummed to herself.

"You're afraid," she said. "It's OK, Daryl—I'll protect you."

He narrowed his eyes at her this time and sucked his teeth in response.

"I don't need you protecting me," he said. "Maybe I don't want to go out there, chasing after some crazy ass and have to watch out for you."

"He killed your brother," Michonne said.

Daryl made a grunting noise.

"Was a matter of time," Daryl said. "Given the chance? Was a lot of people would've jumped at the chance to kill Merle. You too, probably."

Michonne hummed and shook her head.

"I wouldn't have wanted to have family barbecues with him," Michonne said. "But—when he went to Woodbury? When he was—delivering me for Rick? I got the chance to talk to him. To really talk to him. And—I'm not going to say that we'd have ever been friends, but I did…"

She broke off a moment and gathered her thoughts, choosing her words carefully.

"I gained some respect for him," Michonne said. "Maybe—I understood a little better where he was coming from? Maybe I understand a little bit more about you, too."

He looked at her and shook his head, but he didn't offer any words to go with the head shake.

"You wanna go after him just because he fucked Andrea up," Daryl said. "She prob'ly had that shit coming. You lay down with dogs, you get the fleas."

Michonne felt a strange, sharp stab at the comment. Even if she might have had similar thoughts herself—even if she might have had much worse thoughts at times, she didn't want to hear them coming from anyone else.

But, for right this moment, she needed Daryl. She needed to be on his side, and she needed him on hers.

"He'll come back," Michonne said. "He'll come back for me. He'll come back for her. He'll come back for everyone at this prison because he's got it—it's in his head that he needs this place. And now that he's burned Woodbury down? He's going to need it more. He's out there—and right now? We could kill him. That's why he won't come immediately. But it won't take long for him to find an army again. And when he does? He'll come back. And he'll kill…he'll kill everyone. Andrea, me, you…"

Michonne paused a moment and threw out the best card she had, hoping that it worked, even though she wasn't sure it would.

"He'll kill Carol, too," Michonne said. "Just like Merle…"

Daryl looked like his breath caught for a moment. Something changed in his expression, and Michonne pretended she didn't see him glance very quickly in the direction of the prison where she'd left Andrea—almost like leaving her with a babysitter—in the care of Carol to make sure she didn't do something foolish on a whim just to try to prove herself.

Then Daryl looked at the sky, back toward the black cloud.

"We'll leave in the morning," he said. "Whatever's there'll still be fresh enough to follow—but it'll give him time to get away from anything he might have to use against us. Neutral territory."

"I'll be ready before the sun's up," Michonne said.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"You want to just go off—what, Mich? Chasing after him?" Andrea asked.

Michonne stared at her. It was the only thing she ever did when she didn't want to answer something, when she just didn't want to respond. She stared. She could practically bore holes through a person simply trying to intimidate them into not pressing the issue.

Andrea knew the look well.

"Michonne…" Andrea said, but she didn't finish. She didn't let anything follow after it.

Instead she took a moment to examine the dirty floor of the dirty cell—dark gray concrete with layers of dirt and dust that could only be partially blamed on the lack of upkeep since the group had found the location.

She heard Michonne's deep sigh.

"I'm going to kill him, Andrea," Michonne said. "I'm going to kill him and keep him from coming back here. I'm going to keep him from bothering us—any of us—ever again."

Andrea looked at Michonne, then, now that the woman had decided to respond to what she'd had to say after Michonne walked into the cell and made the announcement that, when the sun came up, she'd be leaving with Daryl to go and track the Governor.

"You don't even know if you're going to find him," Andrea said.

Michonne shook her head.

"No," she said. "I don't. But—I know that we've got a better chance now than we will if we wait. He blew up Woodbury. He was close by. He can't have gotten too far. If there's even a chance of finding him? We've got to act now and we've got to do it quickly."

"You don't even know that he blew up Woodbury," Andrea said, shaking her head. "You don't know that was Woodbury that burned down. You don't know where that fire was."

"I know it was close enough the smoke is choking us all out," Michonne said. "And I know that's the direction of Woodbury—you do too. And I know he's crazy enough to do it. After he murdered all those people? His own army? He'd burn the whole thing down and kill the others just to keep them from having his—his kingdom or whatever."

Andrea felt her stomach roll to the point that she had to put her hand over her mouth for fear that she might actually vomit.

"He did what?" She asked.

Michonne went wide eyed for a second and then she crossed the cell toward where Andrea was sitting and joined her on the cot.

"When the Governor came here, before we went to find you? There was a massacre on the road," Michonne said. "He killed everyone. Everyone that came with him here? He killed them. Shot them."

Andrea felt the rolling continue and as soon as she moved to look for a bucket or anything else, Michonne offered her a trash can.

She learned, and she learned it quickly, that vomiting, though involuntary at the moment, wasn't good for broken ribs. Michonne rubbed her back gently before offering her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth with.

"Oh my God…Oh my God…" Andrea groaned.

"You're going to hurt yourself," Michonne mumbled.

Andrea laughed ironically to herself.

"You're talking about—a man who murdered all those people…all those innocent people…and you…" Andrea started, but she didn't finish.

Sometimes? They were different in this world and in the things that got to them the most. Michonne, in a lot of ways, was simply harder than Andrea. She was harder, in those same ways, than most people that Andrea knew. And, sometimes? It was a little frightening.

"Michonne…you can't leave," Andrea said. "Please—you can't leave."

Michonne got up then. To keep herself busy, she took the trash can back from Andrea and sat it outside the cell to be rinsed later if she didn't need it again. Then she walked back toward Andrea but stopped and leaned against the concrete wall instead of returning to the bed.

"I have to go," Michonne said. "I have to kill him. For what he did? For what he was going to do? I have to find him and I have to kill him. I'd wait if I could, but the longer I wait? The better the chance he comes back here and he comes with another army."

"And if he comes while you're gone?" Andrea asked. "If he—makes you think he's doing one thing while he's doing another? That's sort of his—his way of doing things, you know."

Michonne shook her head.

"I won't fall for that. Daryl won't fall for that," Michonne said.

Andrea laughed to herself again.

"Not like me, right?" She added.

Michonne didn't respond. She set her expression instead.

"Please—Mich," Andrea said. "I'm not even welcome here. If you leave? After all of this? Rick'll—he'll probably tie me out by the gates as a peace offering. He'll probably—ask me to leave. If you're going? At least take me with you?"

Michonne stared at her for a moment, and then she walked over, burrowed around in her bag, and came up with one of the scarves that she carried with her. She walked over and tied it around the bars at the entrance of the cell.

"There," Michonne said, coming back in Andrea's direction. "I'm going, but I'm coming back. I've just got to take care of this. Andrea—as long as he's alive? He's always here. He's always—between us. And when he's dead? We can move on from this entirely. Until then? He's hanging over everybody's heads, but he's hanging over ours even more."

Before Andrea could respond, there was a scuffling noise outside the cell and Andrea heard Hershel clear his throat overly loudly. A moment later, he appeared in the cell door just near where Michonne had tied the scarf.

"I don't mean to interrupt," Hershel said. "But—I heard the gagging? I wanted to make sure that things are OK here?"

"They're fine," Andrea said. "I just—got sick, it's nothing. Just something I didn't want to think about."

Hershel hummed and looked back and forth between Andrea and Michonne.

"I—don't mean to pry, but I couldn't help but overhear," Hershel said. "This prison? The whole place—really the worst thing about it—echoes."

He hobbled farther into the cell.

"I know already about the plan to go after him," Hershel said, directing his words at Michonne just before he turned to look at Andrea. "And I can't say that you should go with them, if they're going. You need to rest. At least a week. You're already pushing it. At least give it a week. Two? You'll actually start feeling more like yourself. But—the last thing you need to do? Is go and try to make things worse."

Andrea felt her face burning. She was doing everything she could not to break into tears at the moment over the whole thing. She felt guilty for so much—she felt terrible and responsible for so much—and there was nothing she could do about any of it. And now? Michonne could paint it however she wanted, but she was leaving.

"Andrea," Hershel said, clearly unaware or uncaring that she didn't feel like talking to anyone at the moment, "you're not unwelcome here. Quite the contrary. And—we never meant to leave you on the farm. Still, if it's going to happen? I think there's a one leave quota for the group. You won't be asked to leave again, whether or not Michonne is here. If it makes you feel better, though, then I'll put the stipulation on it to anyone who might mention such a thing that—if you go? I'll be going with you."

Hershel laughed to himself.

"Neither of us is in the condition to make it very far, but I don't think they'll let us leave," he said.

Michonne thanked him, but Andrea was avoiding speaking for the moment. She nodded her head, proof that she was still comprehending words that were spoken, but she couldn't verbally respond.

Hershel waited for a moment and then directed his words at Michonne.

"I understand why you feel like you have to go out there," he said. "And—I can't say that I wouldn't feel the same. I don't condone murder, but I'm human. I have my reasons for wanting to see the man dead myself. Be careful, though? I'll watch out for Andrea—we all will—but we'll be looking forward to having you back."

"I'll be careful," Michonne said. "And I'll be back."

Hershel hummed.

"Are you still feeling ill?" He asked Andrea.

She shook her head. Though, if she were honest, she'd have to say that she felt worse right now than she had in even the past few days.

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Carol scratched her fingers through her hair and stood up. With the mattress on the floor, there was barely enough room for her to make it to the bars of the cell, but she did it anyway. She readjusted the blankets she had hanging there, held up by a string she'd draped herself, and reassured herself that they were hidden from any prying eyes that might be wandering around the prison.

Daryl got up, too, and wrestled the mattress back into place on the cot.

He was blissfully unaware that the noise of that action was probably just as great as any they would make by leaving the thing in place for any of their nocturnal activities together.

Carol might have pointed it out, in some effort to save him some embarrassment of knowing that the people in the prison—if not deaf and entirely unobservant—were most likely aware of what was going on and had been going on between them, but at the moment she didn't want to save him any discomfort.

Because Daryl had thought that appropriate conversation for the beautiful moments of "afterglow" in a prison cell was to tell her that he was leaving out, first thing in the morning, to go hunting after a madman with a chip on his shoulder.

He and Michonne were leaving them all at the prison and they were going to track down the Governor and kill him—assuming that he didn't skirt them entirely or, worse, decide to kill them first.

She turned when she smelled the scent of the cigarette smoke from the cigarette he'd just lit. She couldn't stand it any longer—and she didn't mean for it to come out like it did.

"I'm glad to see you're finally ready to tell everyone about us," Carol said.

He stared at her. He still didn't realize she was mad. He probably couldn't even understand why she would be. He would be totally focused on what he was going to do—he'd come tonight just to have one last night with her before he left out.

She crossed her arms across her chest.

"What're you talking about?" Daryl asked.

"These walls aren't sound proof," Carol said. "Everyone can hear us. Even if we're on the floor, Daryl. Everyone knows. They're laughing at us—both of us—because they're still pretending that they don't know that we're pretending nothing is going on. And you're smoking in here? I don't smoke, Daryl. I wouldn't ever."

"Damn," he huffed. "Your panties are twisted pretty tight, ain't they?"

Carol shifted her weight.

"If you haven't noticed," she said. "I'm not wearing any. But—that's about to change."

She moved and started to get back into her clothes. Normally? She'd try to get him to pass the night with her. She'd promise to have him out well before anyone else got up—she'd get him up the first time that Judith cried. Or she might even suggest that they try to offer to take night watch over from Glenn and Maggie and take over the guard tower for what was left of the night.

If he agreed to stay, though, she certainly wouldn't dress again. Except, tonight, she wasn't even asking him to stay. If he stayed, he did it only because he decided to.

"Are you pissed?" Daryl asked.

"You're getting really good at this," Carol commented.

He blew his breath out at her, but Carol didn't care. If he raved and ranted, even, she didn't care. That's all he would do. She was thankful for that, of course, and she appreciated it, but she didn't fear him. Words were just words, and she could trust him not to go beyond that boundary, even if he was angry with her.

"What're you pissed about? That I said we were gonna go kill this damn crazy asshole? Before he gets back here?" Daryl asked, his voice raising enough that whatever cover might have been there about their presence in the cell was gone.

"Exactly," Carol said. "You've got it. Daryl—you don't know where this man is. And you don't know what kinds of weapons he has. If he did blow up that town? He didn't do it with a—firecracker! It's crazy to go running after him!"

"And if I don't? He comes here? He could kill you. He could kill everyone here, burn this place down like he done that town," Daryl responded, equally bothered.

"If you don't find him right away? He could come here anyway!" Carol shot back. "Except then? We don't even have you. We don't have Michonne. Then we're short hands. We'll have to—to give Beth and Judith guns and hope they don't both kill us trying to shoot at him!"

Daryl snorted and Carol didn't mean to, but she laughed at her own image.

Fortunately or unfortunately, it broke some of the tension of the moment.

"I'm doing this for you," Daryl said. "For all of us. We're gonna kill him and then we don't worry about him no more. He ain't coming back here, not while I'm looking for him. Gonna stay close enough that he can't double back on us."

"And if you don't find him?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged.

"We come back and call it a day," he said. "I'll find him for him to get killed. But I ain't going chasing shadows."

Carol scrubbed her hand across her face in frustration.

"I can't lose you, Daryl," Carol said. "I can't—I won't…not for this crazy man."

Daryl sighed loudly, scuffed his boot at the floor.

"Can't lose you neither," he said quietly enough that she might not have heard him. "Not because of him."

He stood up.

"All you gotta do," Daryl said, "while I'm gone? Just—worry about yourself. Stay safe."

Carol laughed to herself at the words, but they were good enough for her. She knew when she was beaten, and she knew when his mind was made up. She knew, too, that when she'd signed on with Daryl Dixon—in whatever capacity it might be—she'd known what kind of a man he was and she'd known that your hold on a man like him was only as good as he wanted it to be.

He came back. There was that. He always came back.

"Nine lives," Carol said, sinking into him. "Remember?"

He chuckled at her and returned the embrace.

"Count on it," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Andrea walked out the part of the prison where she was almost always assured to find Carol keeping herself busy with one thing or another. This morning was no different than any other. Michonne had left the cell this morning, when it was still dark, and Andrea hadn't seen another person until Carol had come in to insist that she let her change bandages and give her a couple of over the counter pain relievers to replace the stronger ones she was insisting that she didn't need.

Carol saw her coming, and she finished carrying the buckets she was moving to the location she had in mind and left them there before she turned, wiping her hands on her pants, and walked toward Andrea.

"I'm glad to see you out," Carol said.

"I'm not going to stay curled up in my bed," Andrea said. "If that's what you thought might happen."

Carol frowned slightly and Andrea quickly apologized.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean that. I didn't mean it the way that I said it."

She realized that her frustration with everything was, as frustration was wont to do, working its way out at the only person she had right now with whom she felt she had any connection at all. Whether it was paranoia or reality, she felt like pretty much everyone else within the prison practically scattered like rats running for corners when they heard her walking anywhere in the prison.

And, for the most part, if forced to come into contact with her, they didn't exactly speak.

"I know you didn't," Carol said. "It doesn't matter. It's going to take more than that to hurt my feelings. And—to be honest? I'm not exactly thrilled with the _hunting expedition_."

Andrea hummed in response. She didn't imagine anyone was going to be thrilled with the idea that Daryl and Michonne had gone skipping off today—chasing after the Governor.

"Sit?" Carol asked, gesturing toward one of the picnic tables. "I was just about to rest for a minute."

Andrea didn't imagine that Carol was actually planning in resting, but she had already guessed that if that's what Carol thought it would take to get her to sit, Carol would sit too. So, rather than fight with someone having an equally bad day, Andrea walked toward the picnic table and sat on the bench.

"That dress fits well," Carol said. "It looks comfortable."

She sat down next to Andrea and Andrea fingered the soft material of the long, flowing dress she was wearing. Carol had brought it with her to the cell, determined to get Andrea into it so that her pants, and her underwear by extension, wouldn't rub over the top of the bandaged burn. Carol suspected, and Andrea was in no position to argue with anything more than a childlike refusal to do what Carol asked, from which she saved them both, that the rubbing was going to make it harder for the burn to heal and wearing the dress might give it a fighting chance.

"It's comfortable," Andrea agreed. "Even if—it's a little impractical."

"Not for what you're doing today," Carol said. "Your job today is keeping me company—Hershel's orders."

Andrea shook her head.

"I don't even care to argue," she said.

Carol frowned at her again, this time more sincerely than before.

"You asked," Carol said. "So—I'll tell you. Daryl? I've been—I don't know what do you call it? Is it dating? Is that how it works these days?"

Andrea looked at her and shook her head.

"You're asking the wrong person," Andrea said.

"Dating," Carol said. "For a while. Seeing each other? I don't know. Whatever it is…we've been doing it for a while, but it was only last night that I guess—meaning to or not—we sort of came out with it to the whole group. I think everyone knew already, though. Nobody's really said anything. But—I know they heard it."

Andrea hummed and then laughed to herself.

"Yeah," she said. "We heard it too."

Carol smiled at that, looking out over the prison yard.

"How did it—or when did it—start?" Andrea asked.

Carol looked at her a moment and then she shrugged.

"The best answer to that would be a question," Carol said. "Which start? What's actually the start?"

Andrea didn't know how to answer that, but she understood—although in her own way—the difficulty there could be in answering the question that she, herself, had asked.

Carol sighed and then hummed, obviously thinking about the question with more focus this time.

"It was—just after we got on the road," Carol said. "Just after—the farm."

Andrea felt her chest tighten at the mention of it, but she did her best not to let her face give it away that even thinking about that night was difficult for her at times. She nodded her head gently to push Carol along.

For a moment? Sitting there just chatting? It was nice. It was a welcomed escape from the reality around them.

"We stopped—it was a barn, I think? A barn or a—well, they're not necessarily barns but like—storage sheds? But big storage sheds?" Carol said.

Andrea nodded. She wasn't entirely sure which of the structures Carol might be referring to, but there were a number of similar type structures all over the countryside around here—she and Michonne had spent more than one night in one of them as well.

"So we all stopped and I was just—I guess feeling sorry for myself," Carol said. "We all do that, from time to time."

"Some of us more than others?" Andrea offered.

Carol shook her head slightly in response, but she didn't verbalize that she didn't like Andrea's comment.

"We stopped and I put my bedroll over to the side, out of the way," Carol said. "Daryl comes over and he puts his right next to mine, practically touching. He gives me some kind of speech—at least a Daryl style speech—about how he doesn't want to be up under all of them. I didn't tell him to leave. I liked it. I guess. And then—well—morning rolled around and…"

She made a gesture, wiggling somewhat where she sat and Andrea laughed to herself, figuring out pretty quickly what she was referring to. She smiled and nodded at Carol.

"Yeah?" Andrea pressed.

Carol smiled in response.

"So Daryl was embarrassed by it, but I told him—you know—don't worry about it," Carol said. "It wasn't a big deal. It was just—normal."

"So you helped him out?" Andrea asked.

"Nooo," Carol said, drawing out the word and shaking her head. "No. Not then. But—every night after that? He'd stand and wait, off to the side, like he was looking at one thing or another, wherever we stopped, and then he'd put his bed down. Right next to mine. And in the mornings? I'd wake up with him hugging me, a little closer and a little more relaxed, always in the same way. Always with the same…normal…thing going on."

Andrea growled to herself.

"Now you're driving me crazy," Andrea teased. "How long did it take you?"

Carol cocked an eyebrow at her and got something of a mischievous smile across her lips.

"Maybe some of us aren't as quick at things as others?" Carol asked.

Andrea felt struck for a moment, but she let it go, understanding that Carol was teasing and appreciating, even if the comment stung, that there was someone there who was willing to have a light conversation with her—a conversation, no less, in which she shared with her something she probably hadn't bothered to share with anyone else as of yet.

"I'm sorry," Andrea said. "Go ahead?"

"So—we found the prison," Carol said. "And we took it. And then—Daryl was on watch and I—made a joke. Teased him. And he sort of…misspoke? And I made a joke out of that. And then?"

Carol laughed to herself.

"All of a sudden it wasn't a joke anymore and the rest was history," Carol said with a shrug. "He's been nervous about everyone finding out, but I think he realized last night that it wasn't really going to matter. You know? We're not in high school anymore—and we're all adults and—in this world? You enjoy what you can, while you can. It's a short life. Even shorter now."

Andrea smiled to herself.

"That's sweet," Andrea said. "And—you both deserve to be happy. You really do. I'm really—thrilled for both of you."

Carol thanked her and nodded her head, looking back out over the prison yard like she was reliving, in her mind, the story that she'd just told Andrea.

"I know," Andrea said, "that everyone—hates me for what I did with the Governor. I—hate me more than I think anyone else even could. But—I did it because…"

She stopped and shook her head at herself.

"It doesn't matter why I did it," she said. "I never meant for things to go this way. None of it. I wanted everyone to have a chance. I wanted—to believe that the Governor was a good man. I wanted the people of Woodbury to have their town. I wanted everyone here to be happy. I wanted—I just wanted everyone to have a chance. I messed everything up."

Carol hummed.

"To start," she said. "I don't think anyone really hates you. I think—if anything—that you were closer to being right when you said you hate yourself. And that's something that you have to work out with yourself. Really? You didn't do anything wrong."

"I slept with the Governor," Andrea said.

"And I married Ed," Carol said. "We all make poor relationship decisions. Sometimes it's easy to believe that someone is a good person. Or, at least, to want them to be a good person badly enough that you don't see the bad things about them. That doesn't make you a terrible person, Andrea. It makes you—human. He turned out—crazy. So did Ed, in his own way."

Andrea stared at her, working at swallowing the lump in her throat that appeared at the simple feeling that someone was there, hearing what she had to say, and was being sympathetic. Someone was—if not validating her feelings—at least proving she really heard them, and she wasn't trying to blame her for what had happened, or for anything she'd done for that matter.

"You're distancing yourself from him already," Carol said.

Andrea raised an eyebrow at her and Carol smiled softly in response.

"You're calling him The Governor," Carol said. "When you came before? You called him by name. Eventually? It won't matter to you what you call him—because he won't matter to you. He'll be really dead to you. But right now? You're distancing yourself from him. I did the same thing with Ed—called him my husband, not really keeping his name there—not until he couldn't hurt me anymore."

"What—The Governor—did to me," Andrea said. "Was one time. I can't—even imagine—what you went through with Ed."

Carol shrugged and shook her head.

"And it doesn't matter anymore," Carol said. "Just like this—once you're healed up from it and…things move on? Time moves on? It won't matter anymore either."

Andrea nodded her head in halfhearted agreement.

"I hope you're right," Andrea said. "I don't—like that they went after him, but I think that Michonne needs this. She needs him dead. And—maybe that'll help things not matter as much anymore."

"It might help," Carol said. "At least—between the two of you."

Andrea repeated the nod of halfhearted agreement.

Carol smiled at her, just barely letting the corners of her lips turn up to indicate the gesture.

"Fair's fair," she said. "I told you mine. Now—tell me yours. What's the story with you and Michonne?"

Andrea stared at her. If the question that she'd asked Carol was complicated, she felt like Carol, without even knowing it, had surely trumped it.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol didn't seem bothered when Andrea fell silent for a short period after her question about the relationship that Andrea shared with Michonne. Maybe, and possibly better than anyone else might have been able to, Carol understood that sometimes putting into words something that should seem so simple wasn't always as easy as it seemed.

It certainly wasn't for Andrea.

"I don't know—I don't know if I feel like I can really speak for Michonne," Andrea said.

"I didn't ask you to," Carol offered.

Andrea smiled to herself.

"But if you're asking me what's going on between us? What's our relationship? You're asking me to put words in Michonne's mouth," Andrea said.

Carol laughed quietly at that.

"If Daryl or Michonne either one wanted to dictate what was being discussed here," Carol said, "then they should be here. But—I saw them both walk out those gates this morning."

Andrea hummed.

"But—I…" She started.

"I'm asking you to give me your view of things," Carol said. "I didn't tell you what Daryl thinks or—how he really sees what's going on between us. I don't know if he even knows that. I asked you what's going on. I'm not going to tell Michonne. Are you going to tell Daryl what I said?"

Andrea shook her head.

"No," she said. "I wouldn't. I mean—Daryl doesn't even talk to me right now, but if he did? I wouldn't say anything. It's not really my place to say anything."

"And I'm not saying a word to Michonne," Carol said. "And—Daryl doesn't hate you either, if that's what you're thinking." She laughed quietly to herself and shook her head. "I don't know if Daryl really cares that much about too many people to hate them. He just sort of—does without—more than anything. But—go ahead? Tell me?"

Andrea made a face and Carol made one of her own in response.

"If you don't want to," she said, but she didn't finish it. She left it hanging.

Andrea shook her head and sighed.

"No," she said. "I just—don't want to say the wrong thing. Michonne is…"

Andrea broke off. For as well as she felt she knew Michonne sometimes, there were other times she felt like they'd barely met. If she thought about it too much, Andrea could almost feel like she was crazy simply because her answer to any given question about Michonne might be entirely different given the day it was asked.

"When we were out there?" Andrea said. "When the whole thing started?"

Carol nodded her head, a look of some concern on her face—the traditional expression that nearly everyone adopted to display themselves as a careful and attentive listener.

"She was _everything_ ," Andrea said. "She—saved my life. She kept me alive. She took care of me. Without Michonne? I wouldn't have ever made it."

Carol hummed.

"I think—maybe you're wrong," Carol said. "I think—maybe? You and I have something in common there?"

Andrea raised an eyebrow in question.

"Sometimes? We think we wouldn't survive," Carol said, "but the truth is? We have survived. We _are_ surviving. We might've had help—but look how many people had help and didn't survive? There's something to be said for that. I'm not sure exactly what, but there's something."

Andrea considered it a moment.

"I don't know if I would or I wouldn't," Andrea ceded. "But I felt like I wouldn't have survived without her."

"Now maybe that's saying something," Carol said. "So—you survived together. You were friends…and?"

Andrea shrugged slightly.

"Friends doesn't seem like the right word for it," Andrea said. "Not really. And—I guess—things just got more and more intense. We were alone, we were…"

"You don't have to justify yourself, either," Carol said. "I'm not here to judge you. Just like—I don't expect you to judge me for all the nights that I spent curled up next to Daryl, just hoping he didn't wake up and realize that we were closer than he was comfortable with."

Andrea sucked in a breath.

In a slightly different way, maybe, she'd had similar experiences.

"One time we—tried something a little more," Andrea said. "One thing just—you know—it just led to another and we tried."

Carol laughed to herself.

"You tried as in…you didn't succeed?" Carol asked.

Andrea felt her cheeks run hot. She didn't particularly care for remembering the whole thing. What she'd felt was, at least at first, something wonderful and warm and perfect between them had turned into something almost horrible.

Andrea simply shook her head at Carol.

"It didn't go—I don't know, not as planned," she said. "Nothing was planned really. Maybe it—just didn't go like Michonne thought it would? Or like it should? I don't know—I really don't."

"It's OK," Carol said, reaching over and patting Andrea's arm lightly. "You don't want to talk about it? Don't. Don't go into details. I don't need them anyway."

Andrea nodded.

"So—for a while after that? Things were just stressed," Andrea said. "Mich was quiet. She was quieter. I started to worry—you know? That she would just…that one day I'd wake up and…"

Carol stared at her a moment.

"That she'd just leave you behind?" Carol asked.

Andrea didn't respond, but she got the feeling that she didn't have to.

"Just like we left you behind," Carol said.

Andrea still didn't respond.

"We didn't do it on purpose," Carol said. "In hindsight? It was terrible. And it never should've happened. But I can promise you that it wasn't malicious. Everyone was leaving—any way they could. When I left you? I should've stayed—but I was afraid and I was unarmed…it's no excuse, but…"

"I don't blame you," Andrea said quickly.

"Maybe you don't have to," Carol said. "I barely made it off the farm, honestly. Daryl—he came. He just showed up, right in the nick of time. Right when—when I needed him. He was there."

Carol shook her head gently.

"If it hadn't been for him? I wouldn't have made it off the farm. And—I don't mean that in the I wouldn't have survived way we were talking about before," Carol said. "Back then? I wasn't prepared. I trusted that someone else would take care of me."

Andrea didn't feel that she had a response to that either, so she simply sat there, shaking her head gently until Carol pressed her to continue.

"So what happened?" Carol asked. "When Michonne was quieter and you were thinking that she'd leave you? Obviously—she didn't? At least, not right away, right?"

Andrea shook her head.

"No," she said. "She didn't leave. I—uh—I got sick. I got some kind of…flu, I guess? Virus? I don't know what I had. I was—there was a fever and I just felt like I was dying. So we stayed in this terrible, disgusting, meat locker. Because it was safe? And Michonne was just—trying to keep me alive. She was trying to keep things going. She'd go out, leave everyday…she'd leave her scarf? To let me know that she was coming back. And she'd go out and get food and medicine. But I wasn't getting any better and the Walkers were starting to build up. They were starting to become aware of our presence there. So…I finally asked her to leave me."

Carol nodded her head gently.

"But she wouldn't," Carol said. "Because—she loved you. And—it's a different thing to leave someone we love accidentally and to leave them on purpose."

Andrea swallowed. It was strange to hear someone else say that Michonne loved her. It was something she thought, and it was something that Michonne had, perhaps, confirmed, but she'd done it a heated moment. It wasn't said, normally, with the same ease with which it had rolled off Carol's tongue.

And sometimes, Andrea doubted it to be true.

"She didn't leave," Andrea said. "Well—she left, but she took me with her. We were picked up then by Merle and the Governor. They took us back to Woodbury. And—Michonne wasn't happy there. She didn't like it there. She knew what the Governor was. She could see things that I guess I couldn't see."

Andrea sighed.

"And she wouldn't tell me what she could see. She wanted me to trust her, I guess. She wanted me to leave with her without an explanation," Andrea said. "Hindsight, you know? I should've trusted her. I should've gone with her. But—then? I didn't see it that way. She left and I stayed. You know the rest of the story."

Carol hummed.

"I do," she said. "At least—I think I know most of it. I think—if I'm not getting ahead of myself? I knew most of the story when they got here with you in the truck."

Andrea raised an eyebrow at her.

"You were unconscious," Carol recounted. "Daryl? Rick? They thought you were dead. They said—they were certain you were going to die. You were bleeding out, almost bled out—and we didn't even know what else. But Michonne? She wasn't going to hear any of it."

Andrea smiled to herself, even though she felt a knot in her throat that she had to try to swallow around.

Michonne had cared, at least, and it was nice to hear it from someone else. It was nice, in a way, to have it confirmed.

"Can I ask? Do you love Michonne?" Carol asked.

Andrea simply nodded. She didn't need to go into any great detail. There wasn't really any pomp and circumstance to it. She loved Michonne. That, at least and if nothing else, was simple.

"So—that's what it is," Carol said. "You love Michonne…and Michonne loves you. I thought it might be that."

"It's not that simple," Andrea said.

Carol smiled.

"Or maybe it's not that complicated?" She said. "I love Daryl. Daryl—in whatever way Daryl does it? I think Daryl loves me. It's not perfect, depending on who you ask, but it's enough for us."

Andrea didn't respond and Carol didn't speak again. For a moment, comfortable silence fell between them. It was, honestly, quite comfortable. Despite herself, Andrea relaxed a little into it and leaned back against the table that was behind her. She caught, just for a second, Carol flicking her eyes in her direction, but then the woman returned to scanning the prison yard.

"How long do you think it'll take them?" Carol asked after a moment. "To get to Woodbury? To find him? If they're going to find him."

"They're already in Woodbury," Andrea said. "Maybe—they've already found him? But—I know they're in Woodbury by now."

Carol started to speak again, evidenced by her intake of air, but she was interrupted when Carl, walking back and forth down by the gates that Rick and Glenn were working outside of—attempting to put up some kind of secondary protection that Andrea hadn't examined closely yet—started to yell out at the two men.

Carol stood up quickly, attempting to get a better view, and Andrea got to her feet as well, though admissibly slower.

"Walkers?" Andrea asked.

Carol's hand went to her hip, a quick movement to check for a weapon that she was wearing, and she shook her head.

"Something," she said. "I can't—tell."

Andrea looked down in the distance, but her vision wasn't too much better than Carol's in the moment. The direction of the sun wasn't in their favor at the moment.

Outside the fences, Glenn and Rick had stopped working, and they were pointing toward something.

Andrea followed the direction that they'd be looking and slowly her eyes let the shapes come into focus. There were Walkers—not too many of them but any Walker was enough to make people uncomfortable—headed directly toward the men and toward the new protection that they were putting into place.

"Walkers," she confirmed, in case Carol hadn't yet identified the figures. "I'd say a dozen?"

"They're going to need some help," Carol said. "I don't even know what they took down there. I don't know if Carl's even got anything."

Carol darted off, suddenly, in that direction.

She threw a quick "Stay here" back in Andrea's direction as she went.

Andrea stood there, watching her go, and tried to decide what she should actually do. Suddenly she felt very uncomfortable—and remarkably _useless._ She wasn't armed, something that felt very wrong now, and she didn't know how much use she'd be to anyone even if she were—but she didn't feel right just standing there, not knowing what might happen to everyone when the small group of people that were coming reached the fences.

So she started to walk, at a much slower pace than Carol, toward the fences and hoped she'd figure out what she was doing, exactly, or what she could do as she went.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"I don't need to be treated like a child," Andrea said as she followed Carol back up toward the prison to keep the woman from pulling her by the arm.

"Then don't act like one," Carol responded back. "Look—I told you to stay up by the prison."

"I didn't even go out of the gates," Andrea responded. "I didn't have to."

"Right, you didn't have to," Carol said. "And you didn't even have to come down there. You could've stayed right where I told you to stay. I told Michonne that I would look out for you. I told her that, until she got back, I would do my best to keep you from getting hurt. But she's not gone a day and you're already going out…unarmed? To fight Walkers?"

"I wasn't really going out," Andrea said. "At least—I wasn't planning on it. I didn't know if it would be enough with just the three of you out there when Carl wasn't going out too. I didn't realize you…"

Andrea let her voice trail off, not wanting to say what she was thinking at the moment. Carol stopped her walking, holding her hand out to the side to keep from spreading herself more with the Walker mess that she was going to wash off, and she nodded at Andrea.

"I've come a long way," Carol said. "Since the farm? I can shoot. I can hit almost anything—as long as I take my time to get my aim? I can fight Walkers. I'm not—the woman standing, unarmed, waiting on you or anyone else to come and save me. I don't have to be. For a long time? I felt like people died for me. You…T-Dog. Nobody else is going to die for me anymore."

"I'm impressed," Andrea said. "You're—you're really doing great. I think you took down more than Glenn did."

A quick smile from Carol and Andrea couldn't help but smile herself—relieved that things were already feeling calmer from the intensity that Carol had worn when she'd come at her just after she came through the fence.

"Now I'm the one, unarmed, watching everybody else fight," Andrea said.

"It'll pass," Carol said. "It'll pass. But not today—and probably not before Michonne gets back. So just, do me a favor? Don't get involved? In something like that? Just—right now? Don't get involved."

Andrea nodded.

"Fine," she admitted, even though she really didn't want to agree to something like that. "Fine. I'll stay out of the way. Out of everyone's way. And—I won't get involved. I'll just—wait for Michonne to get back."

She didn't miss the expression that Carol gave her, but she walked on, past Carol, toward the prison. She'd hear about it, eventually, but she wouldn't hear about it until later.

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"We ain't doing shit but chasin' shadows right now," Daryl said. "I don't have but half a damn idea where he mighta even gone and that ain't a good one. Prob'ly rolled in on what's left of that fuel truck—but how he left? I can't tell."

Michonne dragged her feet as she walked, Daryl just a step or so ahead of her. He'd been leaving the Walkers to her and there had been more than a handful of them. When the Governor had blown up Woodbury, apparently he'd killed almost every citizen that was left there and now they were walking. And it was a gruesome sight because what was left of them, what was ambling about, was charcoaled.

"You've got half an idea," Michonne said. "And I've got stamina. We'll go on that."

"Ain't good odds," Daryl growled back at her.

She wasn't entirely sure why he was irritated with her, or why he seemed to want to act as though she had caused all of this, but she was clearly not his favorite person at the moment.

"I don't like the odds at all," Daryl continued, seemingly working it out for himself even as he was sharing his thoughts with her. "We don't know where he went which means we ain't got half a chance of finding him, but we got even less of makin' sure he don't just circle around—happy as he can be—and blow the whole fuckin' prison up."

Michonne almost laughed to herself. Daryl didn't speak much. She considered him a quiet person in general. It was one of the things she liked about him. It wasn't so much that she didn't like for people to speak, but she felt, sometimes, like she understood the quiet ones more. Whether it was reality or just her imagination, she felt like they'd gone through the same kind of things that she had—she felt like they were silent, like her, because the person they used to be, the talkative person, had somehow been lost in the madness.

Now, though, she was getting a glimpse of another side of Daryl—and it was a pissed off side that didn't care to be quiet because he was filtering his frustration, and likely his desire to punch something, into yelling back at her about how much he was disappointed that there were no "trails" to follow outside of Woodbury.

They were wandering, at the moment, in something of a large circle around Woodbury, just around the outside of it, trying to find any sign that they could of how the Governor had left and what direction he might be heading in.

But it was hard to tell, with all the charcoaled Walkers ambling about, because they were messing up anything that really might have been there to give them an indication of the man's whereabouts.

"What do you want to do?" Michonne asked. "If we turn around and we go back, we know he's coming. Could be tonight. Could be tomorrow. Might be six months from now, but we know he's coming."

"So we move on," Daryl said. "Or we plan for his ass. And we ain't giving up the prison because of one asshole."

"What about an asshole with an army?" Michonne asked.

She hummed to prompt him to speak, but he didn't.

"What about an asshole—with a fuel truck? And fire? And weapons?" She added. "An asshole with Walkers?"

Daryl stopped walking, stopped looking at the ground, and turned to look at Michonne. He stared at her, leaned forward a little like he was trying to look deeper than what his eyes would show him, and she stood as still as she could.

His stance and his expression, honestly, were naturally intimidating at the moment. Even though she didn't really fear him? She felt that quick catch of wondering what there was to be feared.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Not even then," he said. "We build our own army. If he can find people? We can find people. If he can find weapons? Walkers? Ammo? Fuck—we can find more."

Michonne laughed ironically to herself.

"What's going to draw people, Daryl? Your wit? Or will it be my warm and welcoming personality?" Michonne asked.

He laughed too, quickly and low in his throat, but Michonne heard it.

And he relaxed as well, enough that Michonne felt like she could relax a little.

"Why the hell do you care so damn much?" Daryl asked. "Answer me that."

Michonne swallowed.

"I don't want anyone to die," Michonne said. "And you know as well as I do, if he blows the prison up, we're all going to die. We're going to be—barbecued Walkers—just like these sorry folks were."

He hummed at her.

"Ain't that," he said. "Why the hell you care so damn much? I can tell…when you're pissin' on my leg?"

Michonne sucked her teeth.

"You know it too," she said. "That's why you came. You don't want him to kill Carol…that's the reason you came."

He looked almost offended—or maybe not. Maybe struck? He jerked back slightly at the comment and then he moved his body toward Michonne again. He was clearly a man who knew about threatening body language.

But, all of a sudden, Michonne wondered about it.

Because it was evident—it was crystal clear—that he knew about using his body to threaten and intimidate, but it was also fairly clear that he wasn't really one to cross the line and use it for that purpose. He could be pushed into it, but he wasn't going to be violent for the entertainment of it.

And, all of a sudden, Michonne wondered if there wasn't more to his silence, when he was practicing it, than she'd originally thought.

"That's what the hell it is," he growled. "The whole damn thing—ain't about us. Ain't about Carol. Whole damn thing is you're pissed about him and Andrea."

Michonne stared at him and finally shook her head.

"I'm not holding on to what Andrea did with him," Michonne said. "Not half as much as you are. Not half as much as Rick is. I don't care. Not anymore. What she did with him."

He hummed.

"But you care," Daryl said.

"I care what he did to her," Michonne said to Daryl. "And you would too. I don't—like—what happened between them. But—I think I understand it. The point is, she trusted him—whether or not it was a good idea—she trusted him, and you see what he did to her. You know what he would've done to her. He would've done it to me too. Merle knew it. Merle died for it. He died to try to kill the Governor and to keep this—all of this—from happening. You can do what your brother set out to do—try to keep him from doing more damage. Or I can do what he set out to do. But the Governor? He has to die. Before he kills anyone else. And that includes Andrea, yes, but it includes everyone else too."

Now he was staring at her differently. Maybe he was staring at her because, for the first time, he was hearing her speak—not just words tossed here and there. He was really hearing her.

Out here? Especially away from Rick who seemed to have a way of keeping Daryl from seeing and hearing anything besides what he wanted him to see and hear—and whose message at the moment was no doubt that nothing mattered beyond keeping the prison safe, and keeping Rick and his chosen people safe—Daryl was actually hearing her. Maybe, too, he was seeing her.

And suddenly? She wanted him to see her, at least a little. Suddenly? She was a little less afraid of being seen.

She swallowed.

"I love Andrea," she said, almost shocked to hear herself declare those words so boldly, the first time, to anyone besides Andrea herself. "And I'll do what I have to do to keep her safe from him. I know you love Carol—I've seen it. Everyone has. Even if you don't know it. Do this? You help keep her safe too. But—I'm going to try to find him. I have to. With or without you."

In some ways, Michonne was bluffing.

She was bluffing because, in actuality, she had no idea how to go about finding the Governor without Daryl. Her only hope would be to literally stumble upon the man in the most accidental way possible. But she wasn't bluffing in that, if Daryl didn't want to help her, she would keep looking for him. She didn't know how long, really, and she imagined that there might come a point where she had to throw in the towel, but she at least wanted to get beyond here—beyond where she could still smell what was left of Woodbury smoldering—the rubber tires that held the fire back melting even as the flames burned down to ash. And she'd do it on her own, if she had to.

As a show of her dedication to the hunt—however fruitless it might be—Michonne stepped around Daryl and started off, once again, in the direction they'd been going. She looked at the ground, as she'd seen Daryl doing, though she had no idea what she was actually looking for.

After a few moments, she thought that maybe he'd turned back—headed toward the prison and left her there to walk around in search of a man who was possibly a great distance from where they were now—but then she heard him speak.

"Three days," he called out. "If in three days we ain't found nothing? We do the smart damn thing. Go back to the prison and get ready for him to come to us. Stop chasin' shadows, Michonne."

She turned back, looked over her shoulder, and offered him the first genuine smile that she thought she'd ever given him—even though she somehow doubted it would be the last.

"Deal," she said. "Get up here—I don't know what I'm looking for and I might've stepped on something important already."


	14. Chapter 14

AN: Here we go, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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Carol wasn't sure how long Daryl and Michonne intended to be gone, but she sincerely hoped that their absence wasn't going to be a long one. There was an air of discontent over the whole group. Andrea might have blamed it on her presence, but Carol really suspected it had more to do with the Governor himself than with any relationship Andrea might have had with him.

After all, she was his victim too, even if her victimization came on a different level.

Rick was on high alert, though, and that made him a little less rational than Carol was wholly comfortable with. He checked and rechecked the fences, dragging Glenn along behind him to serve as a second pair of eyes, almost tirelessly—looking for something. He was looking for something they missed. Something that might let the Governor in that they didn't already know about.

But the truth was that if the man returned, determined to get inside, he would get inside. Carol knew that, and she knew that everyone else knew it too. There wouldn't be any stopping him—at least not with what they had in place at the moment.

But nobody was talking about it. At least, not with actual words, though the silences said enough.

On the second day after Daryl and Michonne left to find the man, Carol was working in the yard when she heard Carl yelling from the gates. She jogged toward him, expecting more Walkers—Walkers which should be at least somewhat slowed by the extra measure of cover they put in place there—and instead she saw people.

Her reaction, immediately, was to echo Carl's calls for help because neither of them were armed—foolishly enough—beyond a knife a piece. And a knife, in this moment, would do nothing next to the firearms these individuals might very well have.

Rick heard them, but he had distance to cover, so for the moment Carol yelled out to the people approaching.

"Don't come any closer!" She called. "What do you want?"

"We want shelter!" The black man in the group called back matter of factly. "We want shelter!" He repeated, in case she hadn't heard the first blast of his voice.

In response to his calling, though, there were three meandering Walkers that lost their interest in the fences and came toward him. Carol watched as he pulled, from his belt, a hammer and proceeded to take them down, one at a time, calling them toward him with something like a whistle as each fell and left a clear path to the next.

By that time, Rick reached them.

"What's going on?" He asked Carol. "Who are they?"

Carol looked at him and simply hoped that her eyes could convey that she had no more idea who the people were than he did. Something must have transferred to him because he then turned his attention to the people who were slowly approaching the prison gates—every movement of their bodies now suggesting that they were exhausted and nearing collapse.

"Who are you?" Rick called out, his hand on his gun but the gun still in its holster. "What do you want?"

"Can we talk inside?" One of the women called back. "We're armed, but barely. I'm Sasha. I have this rifle. I don't have enough ammunition to do anything with it. Karen has a rifle—no bullets. Mrs. Wilkins doesn't even have anything. Zach has a knife and Tyreese has a hammer and a gun that he couldn't hit anything with if he tried."

Carol almost laughed at both the list and the tone of voice behind it, suggesting that Sasha—the chosen speaker for this group—clearly didn't have much energy or care to put into introductions.

"Keep your weapons where we can see them," Rick said sharply.

In response, the tired woman first held up the gun that she'd advertised as being non-threatening and everyone else followed suit except the man with the hammer that was focused on watching the slow approach of two other Walkers from a short distance.

Carol immediately helped Carl to pull the one working gate back and slowly the people passed inside, but they passed inside to find Rick standing there, a gun in hand, pointed at them.

"Put your weapons on the ground," he commanded. "Everything. We were attacked. We're not taking any chances."

"We know you were attacked," one of the other women said. Given that she had a gun to put on the ground, Carol assumed that she was Karen. "The Governor?"

"What do you know about the Governor?" Carol asked her quickly. The woman faced Carol and shook her head. She was dirty, as were the rest of them, and looked as tired as they did.

"We know he's crazy," Karen said. "We know he killed everyone in Woodbury—except us. We know that he tried to kill everyone here because we were told you're dangerous and you wanted to take Woodbury."

"Obviously one of these things isn't exactly accurate," Carol responded.

"We should be the ones that are afraid of you," Tyreese said. "But we're putting down our weapons. We were here before and we were turned away. If we hadn't been? We wouldn't have even known the Governor existed."

"If you'd stayed here," Carol offered, "you'd still have known he existed."

She got a look from Rick. He gestured and, though she didn't fully know what the gesture meant, she assumed it was something along the lines of telling her that she'd said enough and she should be quiet now.

She didn't care, not really.

"What do you want?" Rick asked them, taking over and reassuming what Carol thought of as his "cop" voice.

"Woodbury was destroyed," Sasha said, looking back and forth now between Carol and Rick like she doubted their collective intelligence. Carol bit her lip because she already understood what they wanted—but Rick wouldn't be satisfied until he'd questioned them and put them through the wringer.

And then they'd have to decide what to do with them. Because, at the moment, they weren't entirely keen on letting new people into the prison. Andrea had been an exception—but that was only because they knew her and Michonne might have killed them all if they'd suggested otherwise. Besides, it was by their own actions that Andrea wasn't already in the prison.

"We're looking for shelter," Sasha continued. "We've got nowhere to go. We barely made it out alive. And—with our current supplies? We won't make it anywhere else. We came here because we knew that there were people here."

"People who don't exactly want anyone here who was involved with the Governor," Rick said. "You understand."

"So that means we don't call him and invite him over," Sasha shot back. She looked bored with Rick and Carol was simply trying to hide her amusement. She was concerned, at least a little, about letting the people stay, but she couldn't help but not feel too threatened.

Every one of them looked too exhausted to do anything. They were standing unarmed and completely off guard. She thought neither of the two younger women would be difficult for her to take down immediately—hand to hand—if she had to. The older woman looked close to collapse. The roughly teenaged boy looked as scared of them as they might ever be of him, and the older man looked confused by everything that was happening in the exchange.

In short? Carol didn't exactly feel threatened. In fact, she'd already returned her knife to its holster.

"Can I talk to you, Rick? For a minute?" She asked.

He looked at her, looked back at them, and then returned his gaze to her.

She gestured, with her head, back toward the prison.

"I think—Carl can watch them?" Carol offered.

"Yeah, Dad," Carl said. "I can watch them."

Somewhat reluctantly, Rick left Carl with the new group and walked off a short distance with Carol. She could practically feel the tension and irritation coming off of him.

"We don't know these people," Rick said.

"We didn't know each other either," she said. "We didn't know Axel. We didn't know Michonne. Rick—we're going to have to trust people."

"They were with the Governor," Rick said.

Carol shook her head gently.

"They were in his town. They lived under him. They didn't know what he was until it was too late for them too," Carol said.

"So you think we should take them in? Just—welcome them right into our home? We don't know where the Governor is. We don't know where Michonne and Daryl are. And we've already got Andrea here, living under our roof. Now we're going to invite more of the Governor's people inside?" Rick asked.

"Andrea didn't bring the Governor here," Carol said. "Nobody did. He would've come anyway. He was power hungry, Rick. He would've found us eventually and he would've wanted what we have. That's an old woman, a boy not much older than Beth, a man and two women. I don't think they're much of an army."

"You're going to feel comfortable sleeping with them in the same space as you? As Judith and Beth…Carl?" Rick responded.

Carol glanced back at them. Her knee jerk response would've been to point out that, until they'd had a bath, she didn't feel comfortable with them sleeping anywhere—certainly not where she could smell them—but she could tell that Rick was in no mood for jokes and would find them inappropriate at any rate. She'd been worried about the prisoners when they'd come—and then she'd been one that was most heartbroken when the Governor had taken Axel's life.

People, it seemed, had a way of "going good" or "going bad" in opposition with what you originally thought of them, and these might be no different, but Carol didn't think there was much to be concerned about.

"We'll give them a trial?" Carol said. "D block is clear. They can sleep there. We can lock our block at night?"

Rick gave her another look, one that she couldn't quite read, but finally she sighed.

"We can ask Andrea about them too? If they were all in Woodbury they have to know each other, right?" Carol said. "They might be able to tell us something—something we don't know—about the Governor. About what he's planning? Or he might be planning? About where he is? Rick—they could be important to us. Important to keeping this place safe."

Rick glanced back toward the group—the wholly threatening group of which everyone but Tyreese had sat down on the ground to stare at Carl—and then he nodded with a gesture that was something crossed between a nod and a shake.

"I'll talk to them," Rick said. "For a little while? They can stay in D Block."

"At night," Carol said quickly. "It wouldn't hurt us to get to know them—during the day?"

Rick looked annoyed, but she didn't care about that either.

"I'll talk to them," he said. "You talk to Andrea. Find out what she knows about them."

He looked unsure, and Carol knew it was because he still harbored some ill-feeling for Andrea. Really, though, she thought it all really boiled down to the fact that he was angry about the Governor's attack, and he needed someone to be angry with. Andrea just happened to fit that bill. Now, maybe these newcomers would too.

"I'll talk to Andrea," Carol said. "And—I'll get some water started warming for them to wash? It won't take much to make dinner go a little farther."

She got a half nod from Rick and he started, a stiffness to his walk, back toward the group that was waiting and Carol turned and started toward the prison.

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 **AN: So this one was adding in more information/characters/etc. to the overall structure of the story. For those of you who aren't used to reading what I write, these things happen sometimes. (Although I don't think this is the case, since I'm only sure that Vicki and Hanna are reading, LOL . Hi ladies! Thanks for reading! And yes, Hanna, I already know you don't like the new additions. I'm sorry. ;-) )**


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Here we are, another little chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"I mean…I remember the names," Andrea said. "I do, but I don't really remember the people. At least—not by name alone."

Carol sat in the chair in Michonne and Andrea's cell while Andrea sat on the bed where she'd spent most of the day.

"But you'd remember if they were bad, right?" Carol asked.

Andrea shrugged.

"I suppose," Andrea said. "Carol—to be honest? I don't know what to think about anyone, anymore. After the Governor?"

Carol hummed.

It was a fair call.

"Do you think I made the wrong call?" Carol asked. "Telling Rick to let them in on a trial?"

Andrea cleared her throat and then nodded.

"No…I mean yes, I think you made the right call," Andrea said. "From the story I got? From Michonne? He killed everyone that came with him. If they didn't come with him—maybe that means they weren't involved? Or they didn't want to be involved?"

Carol considered it a moment and then she nodded.

"Then it's done," she said. "You should come out sometime…meet them?"

Andrea looked at her, but she didn't respond. Carol got up from her chair.

"Or, if not for that, you should come out just because," Carol said. "You shouldn't stay in this cell until Michonne gets back, especially since we have no idea of knowing how long they'll be gone."

"I'm just trying not to do anything wrong," Andrea said. "I'm trying not to…"

"Come out of the cell," Carol said. "Help me with laundry. With dinner. Keep me company if you want. But come out of the cell. There's plenty to do that doesn't require fighting Walkers. Or fighting anything for that matter."

Carol's first instinct was to say that Andrea was sulking after Carol had scolded her earlier, maybe something she really shouldn't have done until she'd cooled down a little, but her second instinct, really was to say that the woman really wasn't sure, at the moment, where she belonged—or what her role was. And, for that, Carol could be sympathetic.

"Come help me with dinner?" Carol asked, softening her tone. "Beth's taking care of Judith. Everyone else is busy with other things and with the new people."

She hummed.

"Daryl isn't here. I'd appreciate the company," Carol said. "Please?" She added for good measure.

Andrea didn't say anything, but she did get up from the bed and walk toward Carol, so Carol took that—for the moment—as at least a step in the right direction.

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As soon as Andrea laid eyes on the group in question, she knew who they were, even if their names had evaded her. And, apparently, they remembered her too. At least the people who gave her their names as Sasha and Tyreese remembered her.

"We saw you when they came to get you," Sasha explained. "But—we never even realized that you came back to Woodbury."

Andrea didn't quite know how to respond to that. Honestly, she wasn't feeling extremely friendly and chatty—and especially not about that situation—but the woman was genuine.

"I didn't exactly come back willingly," Andrea said.

"What happened to you?" Sasha asked.

Andrea shook her head at that. It was the only way that she knew to say that she didn't want to discuss it at all. Thankfully, the woman seemed to understand.

"You just left Woodbury?" Andrea asked. "Did you see—Michonne or Daryl? Did you see anyone come there?"

The brother and sister, the only two members of the new group that were present and had come to speak to Andrea, looked at one another and then shook their heads.

"We left Woodbury," Tyreese offered. "Not long after they left with you. Some of the people wanted to stay there, try to rebuild the town…but…we didn't. We thought that—you'd told us he was crazy, and it turned out that you weren't wrong at all. We didn't want to take the chance that he'd come back. So—we got a group together of anyone who wanted to leave, and we left."

"Just the five of you wanted to leave?" Andrea asked. She'd already been filled in somewhat, by Carol, on the group that had come to the prison. She couldn't imagine, though, that people would have chosen to stay there knowing that the Governor had killed his own followers and, apparently, having seen her removed from the torture chamber as she was when they found her. But, then again, maybe she could imagine them staying behind—after all, the brainwashing seemed to run deep…for all of them.

"We weren't forcing anyone to go," Sasha said. "We didn't think we had time for that and we certainly didn't have the energy. He took just about everyone with him when he left to come here. We didn't go because we told him we weren't going to fight his war. He left those that weren't able bodied behind. He left a few, like Zach, working the wall…Karen…she went with him, but she got away."

Andrea nodded her head. She wondered how it was that Karen was the sole survivor of what might as well have been called a massacre, but she wasn't going to press into that. She didn't care enough to uncover what was, no doubt, a traumatizing event, and the woman wasn't even currently present to tell her own story.

"So you left Woodbury," Andrea said. "After—after they came for me? Where've you been all this time? Have you seen anything?"

They looked at one another again, some silent conversation taking place between them, and then Tyreese spoke again, his words making it clear that he wasn't exactly comfortable in his new position at the prison as of yet.

"We took what we could," he said. "We took some supplies and we took those that wanted to go with us. There was another older man with us, but he didn't make it. Biters—not a day outside the walls. We—uh—were staying in a barn? Not far from here. We were debating what to do. It's not safe out there on the road, but we didn't know if it would be safe here either. We knew what we'd heard about this group."

"Lies," Andrea said. "At least—I would say most of them were. I don't know what all he told you."

"We saw the fire," Tyreese continued, nodding his head slightly. "We moved because we were scared it was going to spread and we were close enough that it might have taken out the barn. It was better to move because we wanted to—packing up and all that—that move because we had to run for it and ran out of time. Nothing was coming out of Woodbury after that except for…"

He let his voice trail off and Andrea nodded, already shuddering at the thought of what was, no doubt, coming out of the place.

"But—you didn't see _him_?" Andrea asked.

They both shook their heads.

"Haven't laid eyes on him since he left to come here," Sasha said.

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 **TIME JUMP – ABOUT A WEEK AND A HALF**

"I said three damn days, Michonne," Daryl growled.

"You said three damn days before we knew we were on his trail," Michonne said. "If we abandon it now? We won't find it again. We have to follow it while it's fresh."

They'd been travelling—how long? Michonne had lost track. She knew it was longer than the week that they'd said they'd be gone—the week they'd be gone at the latest. Maybe it was a week and a half? With the repetition of their days, it was easy to lose track of the passing days and nights. They ticked by in a blur. The trail they were following, if it could really be called that, was nothing more than the occasional track that Daryl had found—one that, honestly, they were just assuming belonged to the man because it belonged to the only clear set of tracks that they'd found leading away from Woodbury. It was dotted with the occasional evidence that the maker of said tracks, where they were the Governor or just someone who happened to escape the carnage of the town, stopped to rest or eat or—take care of other necessities.

Michonne knew, and she knew that Daryl knew it to, that they were following the tracks not because they were sure it would lead to the Governor, but because they wanted them to lead to him.

They were following footprints out of the sheer hope that they belonged to the devil himself.

"'Chonne, them tracks is gettin' less and less," Daryl said, sitting on the floor of the shed they were sharing for the night and scratching some carving into the floorboards beside him. "You seen it, even if you can't track. We ain't seen a fresh mark the first for a day at least. Nothing. We're just—roaming around again. What I think? Whatever asshole made them tracks? He got bit. Got attacked or got eat or whatever. Maybe he took to walking around like a Walker—but he ain't making tracks for you and me to follow no more."

Michonne felt her stomach turn. She knew it was true. Her brain knew it was true. He was gone. The Governor had slipped out of Woodbury, somehow, without leaving a trail. He'd disappeared as though he'd never existed.

And if he decided to? He'd reappear just the same way.

Her brain knew that, but all her heart knew was that she wanted to know that he was dead. She wanted to know that he was dead and, more than that, that he'd suffered. She wanted to know that he was gone—from everyone's lives and from the face of the Earth. She wanted him gone.

 _Or something worse, if there was something worse._

 _The last ones who had taken from her, indirectly or not, those that had meant as much to her as her life—she'd made them pay the only way that she knew how. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough._

 _But it felt like he was just walking away—free—from what he'd done. From what he'd tried to do. From what he would've done._

"I'm not ready to give up," Michonne said, shaking her head at Daryl. "I'm not ready to throw in the towel and say that he gets to live. To say that he…gets the chance to do it again if he wants."

Daryl lifted his eyes from whatever it was that he was scratching into the wood, his knife stilling for just a moment, and looked at Michonne through his dirty bangs. He sucked his teeth.

"He's gone," Daryl said. "No amount of want is gonna bring him back—not until he's ready to come back. Trail's cold, 'Chonne. If there was a trail at all. We been chasing shadows."

Michonne swallowed hard and shook her head slightly at him. He continued to stare at her.

"You chasing him?" Daryl asked. "Or are you running from him?"

Michonne returned his stare, but she didn't respond to his question.

"Because…seems to me…" Daryl said. But he didn't say immediately what it seemed to be in his opinion. He let his words trail off while he focused a moment more on the floor carving. Then he looked back at Michonne. "Seems to me like…just as hard as you're runnin' after what you're hoping his worthless ass left behind? You're runnin' away from what you know he left."

Michonne swallowed again, and she broke the stare, but she didn't break the silence.

She wasn't running. She told herself, a few times in a round in her head, that she wasn't running. She wasn't running from him. She wasn't running from anything he left behind. She wasn't running from what had happened with Andrea or from the marks that she couldn't stand to see on her—marks that he'd left. She wasn't running from Andrea.

She wasn't running.

 _Except—she might be._

Daryl sucked his teeth again, finished whatever he was scratching into the wood, and then he got up, kicking around in the semi-darkness until he found his bedroll. He sat down on it hard and then he groaned, probably about the hardness of the floor.

"You goin' after him anymore, you're goin' alone," Daryl said. "Because tomorrow? My ass is goin' back to the prison. With or without you, 'Chonne."


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Pain there?" Hershel asked.

"Little bit," Andrea admitted. She'd since given up lying to him or pretending that everything was perfectly and magically healed. Some of it was, and everything was much better than it had been, but there were some lingering effects.

"They're healing," Hershel said. "But—give them a little more time? The burn?"

Andrea wriggled around enough to pull up the dress she was wearing. She'd acquired, going through everything that Glenn had found and brought back, about three of them that she tended to circle through. Of all the injuries, the burn and the damage she'd done to her wrists were the worst of the injuries. Her wrists were mostly owing to the fact that there wasn't enough skin left for Hershel to stitch, and no way to get more magically. The burn? The problem there was that it was just deep.

Hershel ran a finger gently over the healed lines on her thighs.

"Anything there?" He asked.

Andrea hummed in the negative.

"The burn looks good," he said. "You're doing what you can for it. It's healing, but it's taking its time. Wounds heal in their own time. As long as there's no infection, there's no reason to worry."

Andrea relaxed, for a moment, and allowed him to finish the poking and prodding that he insisted on every three or so days—always worried that something was going to make itself known that he'd missed entirely. On the whole, though, she thought that he'd done everything for her that any doctor probably could have, especially given what he had to work with.

"Well…" he said, drawing the word out the way he always did when he was done. Andrea took that as her cue to be able to sit up and rearrange her clothing, making herself more comfortable. "Looks good. Just—not quite done healing yet."

Andrea thanked him, like she always did, and he waved the thanks away—like he always did.

"What about you?" He asked.

"You see how I am," Andrea said.

He hummed and sat back in the chair that was his normal spot.

"I see how you want me to think you are," Hershel said. "I see that you stick close to Carol. Andrea—you could talk with the rest of us?"

"I speak with anyone who speaks with me," Andrea responded.

And that much was true. She talked to Hershel, to Carol, and sometimes to Glenn and the new people that had since come to the prison. Maggie, surprisingly enough, seemed to harbor some annoyance against Andrea, and Beth by default because she didn't seem able to act outside of her sister's example, and Rick had hardly even noted that Andrea existed.

Hershel nodded his head slowly at her.

"Maggie's been bothered, since she got back, by what happened with the Governor," Hershel said.

"I didn't have anything to do with that," Andrea said. "And I didn't know anything about it."

"I know you didn't," Hershel said. "And Maggie does too. She'll just take her time to come around."

Andrea sighed and hummed to herself.

"She can take all the time she wants," Andrea said. "But I don't have anything else to say about it and I'm tired of explaining myself. I don't have anything else to say about any of it. And—I'm not going to spend the rest of my life apologizing for it."

"Nobody expects you to," Hershel said. "And—everyone is going to come around. I was mostly asking about you. How are you?"

He pointed to his head.

Andrea shook hers in response.

"I'm fine," she said. She resisted the urge to point out that Maggie still wasn't over—whatever it was that had actually happened to her, but Andrea was honestly not nearly as hung up on what had happened with Governor as they expected her to be.

Honestly? She was more annoyed, at this point, that her body still refused to let her do all that she wanted to do—or that Carol and Hershel, acting as spokespeople for her body, refused to let her do what she wanted.

"That's one answer that so seldom means what it says," Hershel said.

Andrea shook her head at him.

"I'm not crazy," she said.

"Carol said you had nightmares?" Hershel asked.

Andrea gritted her teeth and resisted the urge, at the moment, to point out that he wasn't a psychiatrist.

"A few," Andrea said. "Carol—woke me up. One time. She stayed the night. I didn't ask her to stay."

"Have they stopped?" Hershel asked.

Andrea stared at him.

"They're really not regular enough to worry about," Andrea said.

Hershel nodded his head, paying particular attention to his own hands for a moment, and then he looked back at Andrea.

"You miss her," he said. "I know you do. She's—coming back. They both are. They're just taking care of things and they'll be back. They're both capable individuals."

Andrea didn't respond. She didn't have anything to say to Hershel about it. She'd tried not to have anything to say to anyone about it. And she knew, as well as anyone else, that they were both capable individuals. They were both the types that could survive out there. They could survive alone, if they had to.

Still, Michonne and Daryl had been gone a long time. They'd been gone far longer than they'd said they'd be gone. And Carol could play the voice of optimism all she wanted, but that didn't mean that they'd actually make it back.

And even if Daryl made it back? It didn't mean Michonne was coming back.

No matter what the scarf, hanging from the bars near the door of the cell, might have to say about it.

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Carol had gotten to the point of telling Andrea, whether the woman asked for it or not, at least twice a day that Daryl and Michonne were coming back. In the beginning? She'd promised that it would be a matter of hours before their return—they'll be back later tonight. They'll probably come in the morning…and so on.

Then it had become a matter of days—tomorrow they'll be back. The next day at the latest.

Now? It was really just becoming that had no time tied to it at all, and Carol was doing it as much for herself as she was for Andrea.

He'd left once before. He'd gone with Merle, scared that the man wouldn't be welcome at the prison—and really he hadn't been. He could leave again.

Carol didn't think he would. She thought that she meant more to him than that. But she also knew that Daryl was, in many ways, unpredictable.

Michonne, too, seemed as though she could be unpredictable.

Still, believing that they were lost, or that they'd found what they were looking for at some great distance from the prison, or even believing that they'd run away together and disappeared into the sunset was preferable to letting herself even think that it was possible that something had happened.

That was the one thought that Carol didn't want to entertain. At least, if he was gone? She wanted to believe that he'd gone somewhere because he wanted to go there—because he'd felt drawn to go—not because something had happened.

No matter how often she said it to Andrea these days, over making breakfast or washing clothes or talking about the supplies that they had, Carol was starting not to believe her own words when they fell from her mouth.

So she was very surprised the day that she'd heard Tyreese calling up from his place near the gates—a place where he was staring construction on what would eventually be a barn for some livestock that they'd seen and hoped to catch for themselves—that someone was coming. Like she did with most announcements, whether it was Walkers or people, Carol had moved immediately toward the fence to help if she should be needed.

And as soon as they'd cleared the hill before the prison gates? As soon as they were visibly walking toward the gates—albeit quite slowly—she'd nearly felt her knees give out and she'd immediately joined in yelling about their arrival.

Tyreese pulled the gate open and stepped out to help clear the path of the few Walkers that weren't caught on the spikes they had to clean off daily. Carol stood back, as he'd asked her to, just inside the fences and waited for them to get there, just as she waited for the others who were coming to greet them to make their ways from wherever it was they were loitering at the moment.

And as they cleared the flat, gravel space just before the gates, Carol had been even more surprised because, out of nowhere, she saw a smile flitter crawl across Daryl's lips—one that he didn't drop nearly as quickly as he normally did—and he picked up his pace, running around Tyreese without question and straight toward her.

The impact nearly took her off her feet in a much more literal manner than the original surprised had threatened to do. She felt herself being hoisted up and she called out in surprise before she even realized she'd given voice to her feeling.

But he didn't let go of her, despite the fact that the yard was filling up, and she didn't ask him to.

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Michonne's body felt like it was made partly of concrete at this point. Everything—every finger and every toe and everything in between—felt like it weighed a thousand and one pounds.

For all Daryl's ability to follow the trail that led them to nothing? They'd gotten lost twice trying to find their way back to the prison. And even with the side trips? They'd seen no real evidence that the Governor even existed anymore. He was gone entirely from their radars.

She'd grown nervous, too, as they neared the prison, that when they finally found it? It wouldn't be there. Their plan had originally included staying close enough that they'd be able to be sure that he didn't find a way to go around them and reach the prison. That had quickly gone by the wayside when they'd realized that they weren't going to simply walk up on him—not too far from Woodbury—and finish what they came for.

In the amount of time that they'd been gone? Enough time that Michonne had lost track of it? He could have destroyed the prison and everyone there ten times over.

But it was still standing.

Michonne had sighed from the relief she felt when she saw it looming in the distance.

And then, the closer they'd gotten, the faster her pulse had picked up at the thought of seeing Andrea again. It would be the first sight in a good amount of time.

Would she be healed? She'd still be healing—but she'd be better. Would she be angry at the time they'd been away? Would she be angry that they'd failed at the mission that they'd undertaken?

Would she give Michonne a chance—even if Michonne wasn't entirely sure what she wanted a chance at?

Daryl had beat no bones, as the time had gone on, that he'd be happy to see Carol. He missed Carol, and Michonne suspected that he loved the woman even more than he knew himself. Maybe it was easier for others to see love than it was for those trapped inside it to see it.

Daryl didn't say, really, that he loved Carol—but he said everything else that meant it. Carol's cooking was better than Michonne's. Carol could make a fire ten times faster than Michonne. Carol would've washed their clothes better than either of them could in the creeks that they'd stopped by. Carol was good to pass the hours with…

She hadn't expected, though, that he would run and grab Carol up the way that he had, swinging her around as he held her like she was little more than an oversized ragdoll.

Anyone who didn't know it already? They knew in that moment that Daryl loved Carol.

Michonne didn't know, though, if she had such a show in herself. She didn't know if Andrea would accept it if she did.

She had a lot of time to think about it, and she had come to the conclusion that she loved Andrea—but she wasn't sure that Andrea felt the same about her. Especially not now.

Michonne wasn't sure that she deserved such an emotion from the woman at any rate. She'd accused Andrea of being unkind—but Michonne had enough time to realize that maybe she hadn't always been kind herself. And, maybe, she hadn't always been fair.

When Michonne saw her? Walking slowly toward the gate?

She was wearing a dress—a soft, flowing, summer dress. It looked so beautifully and ridiculously out of place in the prison yard. Her hair was half up, just the way that Michonne liked it best, the unruly curls knotting on her shoulders.

She looked well. She looked much better than she had when they'd left.

And on her lips? There was just a hint of a smile—or maybe Michonne's mind was playing tricks on her.

When Michonne crossed the uneven ground to stand in front of her, Andrea turned her face just enough to look in Carol and Daryl's direction where, Carol having regained the ground beneath her feet, they were standing close together and exchanging some words that nobody else could've made out.

Andrea turned her face back toward Michonne.

"I don't even get a hug?" Andrea asked.

Michonne smiled softly then.

"I didn't want to hurt you," Michonne said. "Your ribs?"

"I think they'll be alright," Andrea said. "It's been a while. They've had a lot of time—to heal."

Michonne nodded her head gently and stepped forward, closing the space between them. Andrea wrapped her arms around Michonne, hugging herself against her gently, and Michonne returned the gesture.

It was all the way back to square one, maybe, but maybe that's where they needed to go. Maybe that's where they had to go—for both of them.

It was a start. And everything had to start somewhere.


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne was sitting on the bed, her skin still wet from the bath that she'd taken out of the pot of hot water—now greatly cooled down—that Carol had offered her and that she'd already put outside the cell to empty in the morning. Andrea, now, was standing and preparing herself for her own bath—mumbling something about Tyreese's plans to have the showers in the place, at least a couple of them, in working order and some jumbled information about generators and other such things.

Michonne, honestly, couldn't even focus on the words for half a minute. They didn't matter to her—not at the moment.

Because her mind was going three thousand miles a minute about other things.

And Andrea didn't even seem to know it.

"How much is still healing?" Michonne asked, her voice coming out strange to her ears. Andrea turned somewhat quickly and stared at her, question across her features. Michonne felt a little sheepish because she realized that, even though she hadn't meant to, she'd interrupted something Andrea was saying with something entirely unrelated.

A moment later the question soothed over on Andrea's face. It was replaced by something else that Michonne couldn't put a name to and wouldn't have dared try to at the moment.

Andrea wriggled her way out of the dress she was wearing before Michonne could even offer to help her—which she had full intent to do—and she stood there, just a short distance from Michonne given the scant space in the cell, with the dress puddled at her feet.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" Andrea asked. "It's healing. Everything's healing. The scars? They're not going anywhere. None of that is. My wrists? They're wrapped up daily because they're slowly to heal. They're disgusting. The scars will be too. This?" She peeled the tape holding the gauze onto place over the burn and showed the wound—shallower and less offensive than it had been—to Michonne. "This is taking its time—but wounds take their time, at least that's what Hershel keeps telling me."

Andrea sighed.

"So every day? I give it time. I—get up and help Carol with breakfast. Then? I help with—whatever she'll let me help with. I—clean this cell ten times a day because they don't tell me what I can and can't do in this little…tiny…space. And at night? I wash like I really need it, wait for someone to help me rewrap my wrists, and then? I go to sleep. To do it all over again in the morning," Andrea said.

Michonne leaned forward, barely able to breathe at the moment and not even sure what to do about it, and caught Andrea's hand by her fingertips—the only thing that she could reach at the moment. She pulled her and Andrea stepped near her, stepping over the dress that she'd left discarded on the floor.

Michonne couldn't have heard her, at the moment, if she'd spoken because it didn't seem that her ears were working correctly. She could hear the pounding of her heart, the rushing of her own blood, her own irregular breathing—and she could hear her mind screaming at her, though she couldn't make out the words that even it was saying.

Andrea moved until she was standing in front of Michonne, her body language saying more than her mouth could have. Her shoulders were slumped, almost in defeat, and she was shaking her head gently and absentmindedly, though she wasn't voicing what was going on in her head either.

Michonne could _smell_ her.

She could remember the night, alone in the woods, before she'd even known the prison existed—before they'd known that Woodbury or the Governor existed—when she'd first been this close to Andrea in such a way.

She'd been as terrified then as she was now, and even then she hadn't been entirely clear on what it was that caused the fear.

 _Maybe it was the fear of being that close to someone again—physically and emotionally. Maybe it was the fear of failure? Of rejection? Of ridicule?_

 _It was fear. At the end of the day? The source of fear never really mattered—its effects were always the same._

Michonne pulled Andrea a half-step closer to her and she pressed her lips softly to Andrea's stomach—purposefully keeping her distance from the garish burn. Under her lips she felt the muscles of Andrea's stomach flutter with the unexpected and soft action. She repeated the gesture and this time the movement didn't happen.

Michonne moved back enough to look at Andrea. The blonde was looking down at her. She looked, honestly, like she was fighting back tears.

"Tell me if you don't want…" Michonne said, but she almost choked on the words. "Tell me what you don't want," she said, deciding to take the question in a different direction—one that was farther from forcing her into giving voice to her own fears and concerns.

"I've never…not wanted…anything you wanted to give me," Andrea responded.

Michonne felt something stick in her throat. More than once she'd been told by Andrea that she felt that Michonne wasn't _open_ enough…that she didn't _give_ enough.

 _So she'd always wanted anything that she was willing to give._

Michonne gestured toward the bed, giving up words for the moment, and tugged at Andrea's hand enough to let her know that the gesture was meant for her. Andrea hesitated a moment, but then she let Michonne lead her—and she sat on her own because Michonne wouldn't have dared to pull her down herself, unsure of how healed things were in reality and how healed they were in Andrea's imagination.

 _There was no easy way to do anything when you felt like you had no idea what you were doing._

Michonne pushed at Andrea's shoulders and the blonde took her time to arrange the pillows on the bed—nicer than the ones they'd had, just like the blanket, and evidence that Glenn had brought something back from a run—and then she lie back, reaching for Michonne.

Michonne came to her and she kissed her—and then she kissed her again. She stayed there, simply prolonging the kiss, long enough that she very nearly lost her breath from forgetting, plainly enough, that such an action needed to be done.

She moved, in her mind retracing the steps that Andrea had made—clumsy and unsure herself—that night in the woods. She moved to her breasts, teasing them. And the soft moan she got from Andrea and the almost unconscious readjustment of her body was evidence that it had been a good move.

Michonne's body ached in response and her own breath caught at the almost silent sound of gratitude—the reassurance that something was _right._

Michonne lingered there a moment—one breast and then the other gaining her attention—simply because she was afraid to go anywhere else where she might fail at what here she was doing well.

But eventually, she did move.

The skin of Andrea's stomach fluttered again with Michonne's lips and tongue. The salty taste on Michonne's tongue was a welcomed taste. The soft feeling under her lips was something she hadn't even realized that she'd missed—not until it was returned to her.

Andrea was healthier now, even moreso than when Michonne had first found her in the woods, so at least Carol had been keeping up with making sure she ate—one of the requests that Michonne had made of the woman. The curves that had started to fade some by the time they'd made it to Woodbury were returning. Michonne gently slid her hands down Andrea's sides, regretting the move only once when Andrea had gasped in a disapproving manner as she'd slid too roughly past her ribcage. She stopped at her hips, mindful to keep her thumb from landing anywhere near the offending burn.

 _She could smell her._

And whether or not Andrea meant to do it, her body language was once again speaking for her because, as Michonne made her way down, Andrea moved her body to make the transition easier.

And Michonne's body responded in kind with the aching from before. The more Andrea responded, the more Michonne's body cried out about its own need—its need to touch and be touched.

 _Its need to earn the sounds from Andrea that it was earning—in some sense her stamp of approval._

All too quickly, though, things took a sharp turn back toward bad memories. Michonne tried her best—asked for guidance and accepted every bit of coaxing and moving that Andrea gave her—but still it seemed that she just wasn't skilled at this. No matter the sucking and licking, no matter the teasing—no matter how much she tried to ask her aching self for suggestions on what would have been the best strategy for attack—it seemed that Andrea just wasn't going to _get there._

Michonne felt, bubbling up inside her, the same feeling of anger and irritation that had happened the last time—the night in the woods that she'd left and walked off, alone, for hours before she returned.

She stopped herself, this time, but she also stopped her efforts when she was finally growing tired and feeling that everything was futile at any rate.

Andrea was panting, and she looked at Michonne when she stopped and sat back on her heels, working her jaw against the pressure in the joints, but she didn't say anything for a moment.

"Let me…" she said when she finally did speak, but Michonne cut her off, shaking her head at her.

"Wasn't about that," Michonne said.

Andrea sat up some, perching on her elbow. She frowned.

"Mich…don't…" Andrea said.

Michonne moved toward her on the bed, almost lying beside her, between Andrea's body and the wall.

"Mich…it's not…" Andrea said.

"I don't understand it," Michonne said. "You're—you're obviously interested. You're not telling me that you want me to stop or you don't like it. But—then you're not enjoying it."

Andrea growled at Michonne.

"I am enjoying it," Andrea said. "I am! I enjoy it—I enjoyed it before. I told you that I did…"

"Then I don't understand why," Michonne started.

"Did you come every time?" Andrea shot back. "Whenever you were with your husband? Or your boyfriend or whoever?"

Michonne knew that she hadn't, but then she felt, somehow, that it should be different. She'd always just sort of silently blamed them for not trying hard enough—not caring enough.

Andrea raised her eyebrows in response to Michonne's silence.

"There you go," Andrea said. "More times than I make it there, I don't. I used to fake it. Just to—I don't know, that's what I was supposed to do, right? But—I just thought with you I didn't have to fake it. I just thought that I could enjoy it and that would be enough. And—maybe it doesn't help that, right now? This time? I spent the whole time worried about this moment right now—the moment when you'd ask me to explain something that I can't explain."

Michonne sighed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Andrea looked off toward the other wall.

"I am," Michonne said. "I'm sorry. I didn't even—plan—to do that."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"Do you always plan things like that out?" She asked, not looking back at Michonne for a second.

"Not always, but…" Michonne responded.

Andrea looked back at her then and brought a finger up to touch Michonne's lip. She traced Michonne's bottom lip with her fingertip and then she smiled at her.

"I did enjoy it," Andrea said again, this time without the defense in her voice that had been there before. "Can I do something for you?"

Michonne shook her head.

"No," she said. "I just—I wanted to do it for you. I wanted…to do something to make you feel good. To make you—happy. To ask…"

She stopped.

How could she admit how desperately she wanted to ask Andrea's forgiveness? She'd demanded, more than once, Andrea's apologies, but out there? Wandering around with time to think about it? Michonne was only just beginning that, for as much as she thought she wanted Andrea's apologies, much of her feelings stemmed from the fact that she wanted Andrea's forgiveness for some of the things that she'd done, and things she hadn't done. And she wanted—through that—her own forgiveness.

"You did make me feel good," Andrea said. "And—you came back. That? That made me really, really happy. This? This was good too. Just—icing on the cake?"

Michonne laughed to herself.

"What can I do for you?" Michonne asked. "Something…special?"

Andrea hummed at her.

"Kiss me?" She asked.

Michonne smiled but complied with the request. Andrea hummed again when they pulled away from each other.

"Let me wash? Help me get—wrapped back up? And then…kiss me again?" Andrea asked.

Michonne hummed back in response, did her best to put on an expression that would keep the smile from sneaking through at the welcomed lightness of the moment, and then she shook her head gently at Andrea.

"I ask you what you want once," Michonne said, "and now? You're just getting demanding."

But she moved immediately to help Andrea up.

Because even if she might pretend she wasn't? Michonne was thankful for the simple request. And she was more than happy to comply.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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When morning came, or at least when Andrea's body felt like it had come—since the light wasn't the best in their cell even when it was daylight outside the prison—Andrea woke to find herself wrapped as much in Michonne's warmth as in that of the blanket. Michonne was still asleep, something unusual for her, and Andrea hated to move even though her bladder was screaming at her.

She lie there for a while, doing all that she could to focus her attention on other things, but eventually the cry to empty her bladder won out over her desire to stay snuggled in the nest that had been made around her.

She eased out of the bed that creaked only slightly now—thanks to Glenn's secret move of soaking down the old springs with some kind of spray lubricant—and went directly to the bucket in their cell, but she wasn't quiet enough because Michonne stirred despite her efforts.

"Stay?" Andrea requested. "I'm just—well—I'll just be a second. Stay?"

Michonne perched on her elbow and scrubbed at her eyes with her fingers, clearly a little disoriented by the return to the cell after she'd been gone from it for so long.

"Where was I going?" She asked.

Andrea chuckled to herself and finished up her business. She stopped by the leftover bowl of water from the night before, washed her hands, and then she returned to the bed, doing her best to slide back into the spot she'd recently left.

"Nowhere?" Andrea said. "I hope?"

Michonne smiled quickly at her and then settled down, still sleepy, for a moment longer before she sat back up on her elbow. She was frowning then, the change having taken place too quickly for Andrea's tastes. Michonne was fretting about something—and Andrea feared that it might be her.

"What?" She probed, finally.

"We didn't find him," Michonne said. "Nothing. We—didn't find a single sign that he left Woodbury."

Andrea considered it.

"Maybe he didn't?" She said.

Michonne stared at her.

"What?" Michonne asked.

"Maybe he didn't," Andrea said. "Maybe he didn't leave Woodbury. Maybe he—didn't make it out? Tyreese said that there was an explosion. Or, he said there were a couple of explosions. They were outside of it, then, close by, but they heard the explosions. Maybe the Governor never made it out? Maybe it just—was too fast?"

"You think that he planned this whole thing out and then he just let himself get blown up?" Michonne asked.

Andrea didn't really know what she thought. If they had no sign of the man, though, and no way of knowing if he was alive or dead? It seemed reasonable to her that any explanation was as good as the next.

"Maybe," Andrea responded. "Or—maybe he did it on purpose?"

"Committed suicide?" Michonne asked. "A man like that isn't going to kill himself when he hasn't gotten what he wanted."

"Maybe he knew that he wasn't going to get what he wanted?" Andrea said. "Michonne—Woodbury was his life. It was his—dream, I guess. To be someone that important…I don't know. Maybe once he realized that all of his followers were dead or were about to be? And that—if they weren't dead—they weren't following him anymore? Maybe he just decided he had nothing else to live for and he…"

She stopped and shrugged.

Michonne sighed and settled back down into her spot beside Andrea, wedged between her body and the wall.

"The Governor didn't commit suicide," Michonne said. "He wouldn't see losing Woodbury as his failure, he'd see it as some kind of—failure or treason or whatever on the part of the people there. Besides…I don't think he'll die happy until he kills me. Or—until I kill him and he knows there's no chance of killing me."

Andrea sighed, feeling tension in her back release itself. Michonne wasn't happy. Her mission to kill the Governor had failed and she would stew over it like she did over every single failure in her life—perceived or otherwise. But, at least, she wasn't angry with Andrea. At the moment? Even with her stewing? It was the nicest morning that Andrea could remember having had with Michonne.

"Maybe he didn't kill himself, Mich," Andrea said. "Maybe he just—stayed in Woodbury?"

"He burned it to the ground, Andrea," Michonne said.

"I didn't mean forever," Andrea responded, making sure that her voice picked up the same annoyed tone that Michonne's had carried. "I meant—what if he stayed there just long enough? Tyreese said that there were Walkers everywhere—burnt Walkers. What if the Governor sort of—hid out? And then when the Walkers thinned out, he moved on?"

Michonne sat up and leaned over. She stared at her in an odd sort of way.

"He hid and we got there too early," Michonne said. "We couldn't find how he left because he hadn't left yet."

Andrea suddenly wished she hadn't suggested it.

"The tracks would be gone by now, Mich," Andrea said. "Long gone. It's rained since you left. Three times at least. He's gone—and he hasn't come back here. He's gone."

"You know he's coming back," Michonne said. "You know he'll be back. And now? We're not going to find him when he's vulnerable. We're not going to get the upper hand on him. The next time we see him? It's going to be because he decided to come back and he's ready for us to see him."

Andrea blew out her breath.

"We don't know he's coming back," Andrea said. "We don't. We can assume he might come back, but we don't know that he will. Mich—if he's even alive? He might've just moved on. He might be building some other Woodbury somewhere else."

"You're content to just believe that?" Michonne asked, her voice raising slightly. "After…after what he did to you?"

"I don't want to spend the rest of my life hiding in this cell—scared that every day he's coming back," Andrea said. "If he's going to kill me I'd hate…" She hesitated.

Michonne was looking at her, at the moment, like she was hanging on her every word. It was almost unnerving.

"I don't want to give up living just because I'm scared he's going to kill me," Andrea said. "That's all."

There was solid silence between them for a few moments. Andrea felt herself tensing up again. It was partially because of the silence and partially because of the discussion surrounding the silence. She should hate the Governor, but she wasn't exactly positive she did. She didn't care for him, and she didn't like him, and she hated what he'd done to her.

But she wasn't sure if she was actually able to hate him. She wasn't sure, at the moment, if she was actually able to hate anyone.

"What do you want to do then?" Michonne asked, breaking the silence after a few moments.

"What?" Andrea asked.

"What do you want to do?" Michonne asked. "For the rest of your life? What do you want to do?"

"Live," Andrea offered.

"Where? How?" Michonne asked. "Here? In this prison? Is that what you want?"

Andrea groaned to herself. Suddenly she was having flashbacks of one too many conversations had about what they were going to do with the rest of their lives. Michonne had something of an incessant need to plan. And though Andrea appreciated her efforts when it came down to situations of survival, she hated the idea of having to plan each moment of their lives out, in advance, when there was no actual promise that tomorrow or the day after might actually come.

"You're the woman who wanted to go to the coast," Andrea reminded her. "You're the one who wanted to—sail off into the sunset. You wanted to—find an island. Grow old together, alone, and—live off the sea. What's wrong with the prison, Mich? There's no Governor here. No madmen to make you want to leave."

"The Governor isn't the only madman in the world," Michonne said. "And—instability doesn't have to be as dramatic as a sociopath."

Andrea sat up now, more than willing to relinquish her spot in the bed and her role in this discussion, but Michonne caught her and pushed her back down gently, beckoning her to stay.

Michonne so rarely asked Andrea to stay anywhere that she felt she had to give into her, so she tried to settle back down in her spot.

"There's nothing wrong with the prison," Michonne said. "But—it's not going to last forever. Eventually? Supplies will run out. Food will run out."

"Not if we grow our own food," Andrea said. "Grow food. Find animals. Arrange for solar power. In the time you've been gone, Mich? We've done a lot of planning and a lot of discussing. We can make this place something that's—if not as good as Woodbury was? Almost as good."

"So you want to stay here?" Michonne asked.

"You want to leave?" Andrea countered.

Michonne waited a moment, apparently considering the question.

"If I did," she said. "Would you go? Or would you stay?"

Andrea narrowed her eyes at her.

"That's not fair, Michonne," Andrea said. "In fact? It's—the farthest thing from fair."

At that, she decided to relinquish her spot once more and started to get up. Michonne caught her, wrapping her hand around her arms.

"Watch out," Andrea warned, just as a move to get Michonne to let go. She loosened her grip for a second, but then she returned the tightness around Andrea's arm.

"You don't have anything there," Michonne responded. "Would you go, Andrea? If I told you I was leaving today? Right now? And I wasn't coming back? Would you stay or would you go?"

Andrea made it to a position to sit on the edge of the bed. She looked at Michonne and she shook her head.

"I would go, Michonne," Andrea said. "But only if you gave me a reason. A real reason, Mich. Not just—that you decided to get up and to go. Not that you just decided that you wanted to leave just to test and see if I'd come following after you. But a real reason? I'd go."

Michonne sat up then.

"We're not going anywhere," she said. "And—if we could get this place…really running? Figure out about food? We could probably stay here forever. We're not really going anywhere. I just—wanted to know."

Andrea laughed—not because she thought it was particularly funny, but simply because it struck her. Now Michonne was moving around, twisting absentmindedly at her dreadlocks, as she started to get ready to get up for the day.

It appeared that the discussion, for all intents and purposes, was done for the day. There was nothing more that she had to say.

"You just wanted to know that—if you decided we should leave—that we were going to leave?" Andrea asked.

Michonne didn't respond to her.

"You're never going to trust me, are you?" Andrea asked.

Michonne didn't respond to that either.

"You know," Andrea said, "I didn't do anything wrong. I really didn't. And—I've apologized for it, but I take it back. I didn't do a single thing wrong. You wanted to leave. I wanted to stay. You left. You told me—that I slowed you down—and you left. That's all you ever really told me besides the fact that I should take your word for it, Mich. And you left. You left me. And—yes. I slept with the Governor. I slept with a man who seemed like a very kind man. I slept with a man who treated me well. I'm a grown ass woman and I slept with a man that treated me nicely because I wanted to sleep with him. And he turned out to not be the person that he presented himself to be—and it turned out to be dangerous—but he's not the first person that's ever turned out not to be the person I trusted them to be."

Michonne stood up, sighed, and wrestled into her pants.

"I never said I don't trust you," Michonne responded. "And I wasn't asking for an apology. I'm not mad at you for that. I don't like it, but I think…I think I understand it. I'm not mad. You had a lot of time here—to think. And I had a lot of time—out there—to think. Now? Maybe we can work on—thinking together? We have to talk. Today was the first time—but we'll have to talk a lot more. That's what you want, right? To get things out? To discuss things? To work out whatever this is between us?"

Andrea swallowed, but she also nodded at Michonne.

"Yeah," she said. "That's what I want. And—I don't want you to leave, Mich. Not again."

Michonne hummed.

"I'm here," Michonne said. "I'm not leaving again—at least not right now. And—not for good. Like I said. Breakfast?" She asked, walking toward the cell door and wrapping her fingers around the bar there.

Andrea sat a moment longer on the side of the bed before she got up to put on the dress that she'd wear for the day.

"You wanted to know if I'd leave with you," Andrea said. "If I'd leave—for you. Because you wanted to. I could just as easily ask you if you'd stay for me—this time."

Michonne hummed.

"Maybe I already am," she responded.


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **For anyone following along at home, I just wanted to say that there will be serious/angsty moments for sure in this fic, but there will also be light moments as well. I'm not really trying to write this as anything at all to do with the show and I'm not really focused on giving a wholly realistic representation of life in the ZA. So that means I'm leaving myself plenty of wiggle room. I ask your suspension of disbelief at times and I hope you enjoy the ride and enjoy the story for what it is—entertainment.**

 **I hope you enjoy the chapter! Let me know what you think!**

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There was a time in her life when Michonne knew what she wanted her life to be. Well—really that wasn't even true when she thought about it. There was a time, perhaps, when she was comfortable with what she thought her life would turn out to be. Maybe that was the best way to put it. She hadn't really put much stock into what she wanted or didn't want, she could just see more or less where she was headed and where that road, more than likely, ended up.

And she'd been comfortable with it. Happy might have been a little too dramatic of a word to use, but comfortable was fine.

She had a good job. She made a good living and her house would eventually be paid for. Her car would be paid for—and then whatever car she got after that would be paid for. Her bills would be met and there would be enough leftover at the end of each month for some creature comforts in life.

Financial stability. That was really what she'd worried about and it was what she was banking on. The rest, she'd always supposed, would simply fall into place—if there was even a "rest" to expect.

That was, of course, before hell had broken loose and she'd gotten caught up in the middle of it. Then? She'd lost track of all that. She'd lost track, really, of any kind of future planning or thoughts about the future.

Those had first come back with Andrea.

And no matter how ridiculous it might seem? She found herself always doing that when Andrea was near her—worrying about the future.

Michonne thought about it, while she ate the less than extraordinary breakfast at the picnic table outside. Andrea sat across from her, eating her matching breakfast, in silence. Every now and again, Andrea lifted her head from the contemplation of the meal and looked around the prison yard like she was taking in some grand view.

Michonne thought about the future with Andrea—any time she was near—and this morning it was the first time that it struck her that maybe, just maybe, she thought about the future with Andrea because she _wanted_ a future with the woman in it.

Even if she didn't really know what that meant these days, she knew that it was something she wanted on an even subconscious level.

But what did a future with someone look like these days?

Was this prison a future? Animals and crops and solar panels and prison cots? Was that a future?

Of course, out there there wasn't much future either. Michonne's idea about the island was probably a stupid idea too. It probably wouldn't be much of a future to go sailing off to an abandoned island and try to live off the land there.

They'd be just as well living off the land here—if that was the plan.

Michonne noticed Andrea look in her direction. When Andrea's eyes landed on her, actually seeing her for a moment, a smile flitted across the blonde's lips and Michonne returned it, although softly, before she focused her own eyes back on her breakfast.

Michonne had no idea what her life would be—not anymore, but right now they weren't planning the future. They were just finishing up breakfast.

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"I would've thought you'd be more excited than you are," Carol said over her shoulder to Andrea.

Andrea was "helping" her with the laundry, but at the moment she more or less swishing the clothes around in the metal tub that they washed in without putting any effort at all behind scrubbing them or removing any of the dirt. She was, currently, the human equivalent of the "gentle cycle".

And Carol could tell that there was something on her mind—but it wasn't laundry.

Carol stopped what she was doing, left the few clean clothes hanging haphazardly over the line she'd strung up for the moment and went over to sit beside her friend.

"Whatever it is, spill," Carol said. "And you better hurry because I don't know when Karen will get back with the fresh water."

Andrea looked at her, full sulk on her face, and shook her head.

"Try me," Carol said. "I can already guess that it's something with you and Michonne. You should be thrilled she's back—and instead? You're sitting here looking like your dog just died."

"Believe me," Andrea said, "you don't want to know."

Carol hummed.

Andrea and Michonne were, much like Daryl, apparently under the impression that things in the prison were secret. The primarily concrete building, though, did little to keep people's secrets. Even if every word spoken didn't sound its way all the way through the block, snatches of things did.

It was just that most of them didn't listen because they didn't care to listen or because it didn't matter to them. And—in the case of Glenn and Maggie—some of them just didn't even hear it any longer. Your ears, eventually, grew tired of picking up the sounds and just let it become something like white noise that you could hear only if you focused on it.

For the moment, though, Carol felt like Michonne and Andrea's voices carried more than the others simply because they weren't sounds that were quite as familiar in the space as some of the others.

"I'm going to say it wasn't a happy homecoming?" Carol asked. "Things didn't—go so well?"

Andrea looked at her, her forehead wrinkled, like she was trying to decide if she was confused or if she was shocked.

Carol smiled at her.

"Echoes," Carol said. "You can share the details if you want. You don't have to."

"How bad are the echoes?" Andrea asked.

"Can you hear Daryl and me?" Carol asked.

Andrea stopped and Carol could see that, now, she was actively trying to draw to mind the night before—and nights before they had left—to answer the question.

"I guess I can," Andrea said. "If—I was paying attention."

Carol smiled again.

"Daryl falls asleep before I do," Carol said. "And—sometimes? I don't mean to listen, but it gets a little boring in the cell. So?"

Andrea frowned and looked around. Carol followed suit.

"Nobody around," Carol said. "Nobody cares anyway."

Andrea struggled with it for a moment, but then she turned, leaning slightly toward Carol.

"I don't know what's going on between us," Andrea said.

Carol nodded her head slightly to show she was listening, but not to force anything more.

"But—I mean—we've…there's a little…physical there," Andrea said. "A little."

Carol nodded her head and Andrea sat there staring.

"What?" Carol asked. "Am I supposed to do something?"

"You're not…" Andrea asked, hesitating to finish with specific words, though Carol could get the gist of it from her combined facial expression and tone of voice.

"From the looks of it?" Carol said. "I'd say I'm more comfortable with it than you are right now."

Andrea hummed.

"I don't think I'm uncomfortable with it," she said. "I think—I just expect everyone else to be."

"Walkers I'm uncomfortable with," Carol said. "That? No. But—maybe that's a story for another day? What's going on?"

"Do you always—you know—get there? When you're with Daryl?" Andrea asked.

Carol bit her lip not to laugh at the question. She didn't want to do anything to dissuade Andrea from having this conversation with her—or any conversation for that matter. She liked it. She liked the comradery of it. The shared experiences. It was something that she'd always "wanted"—the theoretical "girlfriend chatter" that was supposed to happen naturally for everyone as depicted by every good movie that she'd ever seen. It hadn't really happened that way for her, though, and Andrea had honestly been the closest Carol had ever come to finding that kind of friend.

She wasn't going to wreck it now by giggling like a school girl over the first genuine topic of "girl talk" that she got.

"You mean—the big finish?" Carol asked. "No—but he doesn't know that."

"So you fake it?" Andrea asked.

"There's not much faking it involved," Carol said. "I mean—Daryl's had some experience, but not tons. As long as I make sure he knows I—had a good time? He's happy. And I'm happy, really. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't."

She shrugged.

"The sometimes I do is way better than it ever was with Ed," Carol said.

"Well I can't," Andrea said. "And Michonne's going to kill me if I don't."

Carol hummed.

"Sensitive?" She asked.

Andrea gave her a look that didn't require words and put some of her own frustrations into scrubbing at the laundry like it should've been scrubbed since the beginning.

"Is it Michonne or…?" Carol asked.

Andrea looked at her, confused.

"Have you ever before? I mean—you're the one that said you missed your vibrator," Carol said.

Andrea snorted.

"You missed yours too, if I remember correctly," Andrea responded.

"I did," Carol said. "And—sometimes? I wouldn't turn it down. But—I mean you can get there."

Andrea shook her head.

"I don't know if I can anymore," she said. "And now? I'm starting to wonder if I ever really did."

Carol cleared her throat.

"What's she doing wrong or…not doing…or…what's missing?" Carol asked.

Andrea shrugged.

"I don't know," she said. "Honestly? She gets frustrated so quickly that I can't even figure it out. It's like—she wants it to be instant and I don't even get a chance to think about it. Forget making suggestions."

Carol laughed.

"So Michonne's a man," Carol teased. "I never would've known."

Andrea laughed at that too.

"It's not that at all," Andrea said. "I think—it's that it's so important to her that she starts deciding that it's not going to happen before it starts and then when it doesn't happen immediately? It's just proof that it's never going to happen. It's now or never, that kind of thing."

"So," Carol said, wrapping her arms around her knees as she drew them up closer to her, "tell her to take it slow. Tell her—you want to take it slow. Just—enjoy the moment?"

"I'm afraid that any suggestion is just going to make her throw in the towel quicker," Andrea said. "It' so frustrating, too. Carol—I love Michonne."

"As I guessed," Carol responded.

"And this is the dumbest thing ever," Andrea said. "It really is. If I never got there? All the way? Out of the park, whatever? I don't think I'd even care. But it matters that much to her."

Carol sucked her teeth.

"Is it really that it matters that much to her, or do you think it's something else?" Carol asked.

"It could be a lot of things," Andrea muttered.

"I just mean," Carol offered, "that Daryl—well, he'd probably take it personally if I said I didn't have a good time or I didn't enjoy something. It would be—at least I think—something that he'd automatically take personally. I didn't—like him. I didn't enjoy it with him, not that I didn't—honestly—enjoy it. That's why, well, I've got to be really careful about what I do. Like—example?"

Andrea hummed.

"We wanted to try the whole standing up—flat against the wall—something crazy and different," Carol said.

Andrea shrugged and nodded at her head at the same time.

"I had to be careful to make sure that I—that I presented it as—I didn't care for that, but I had to be sure to put it as, you know, next time I didn't want to do that," Carol said. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say? Like—I can't just say that I didn't like it, I've got to include that next time we do it—because I want there to be a next time—I'd just like us to do it a _different_ way."

"Michonne and Daryl are not the same," Andrea said.

"I don't think they are," Carol said. "But still, everyone has their insecurities. I do. I'm sure that you do too."

Andrea sighed, but she did nod her head.

"Fake it?" Andrea asked.

"Or give some direction?" Carol offered. "Couched in enthusiasm for future endeavors?"

Andrea laughed to herself.

"Enthusiasm…I have to become more enthusiastic," Andrea said.

Carol hummed.

"It couldn't hurt," she said. "I may have a couple of other ideas—just—give me some time to think?"

"I've got plenty of time," Andrea responded. "It's Mich that's in a hurry."


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **And I'll go ahead and let you know it's one of the light chapters.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol had her ways.

Daryl hadn't exactly wanted to take her on a run to "pick up things," without more of an explanation than that, but she had her ways. She knew, well enough, what it would take to convince Daryl that he wanted to take her on the run.

And in the end? She'd been right.

She rarely left the prison and she rarely went on runs. Those were reserved for "everyone else". In many ways, Carol felt like they put her in a "corner" as though she couldn't handle herself. She needed to be forever looked after. She needed to be protected.

And once upon a time? They were right. Once? She would have appreciated being kept under lock and key and protected as though she didn't have the ability to kill even one Walker should it approach her too quickly.

Maybe, too, she let them continue to believe that because she could use it to her advantage, but she knew it was true.

She knew that she might not have the ability of some, but she had more than they gave her credit for.

Daryl was slowly learning this about her—and it was something that he appreciated. She thought, though he'd never come out and said it—that the thought of having to take care of her in this world terrified him. The thought that she could, maybe, take care of herself? It made it a little more of an equal partnership.

It was a nice day to escape the prison with Daryl. The temperature was just right so that it wasn't disgustingly hot but the wind from the motorcycle wasn't too cold either.

Carol didn't tell Daryl exactly where they were going. She'd found a phone book, and she'd done the search, but she'd only given him an approximate location. It wasn't until they got close to the place that she'd patted his side to let him know that she needed to talk to him and then shifted just enough, once he'd signaled he was prepared for the change in balance, to yell into his ear exactly where they were going.

He went—but she figured, at the moment, that it was only because the bike wasn't the key location for arguing back and forth between them.

When he stopped the bike, she got off and he followed suit, standing in the entirely abandoned parking lot.

"What the hell are we doin' here?" He asked.

Carol put on her sweetest smile.

"I told you I wanted to pick up some personal things," she said.

"I thought you meant fuckin'—I ain't going in there," he said, gesturing toward the store with frustration in his voice.

Carol smiled at him again.

"Fine," she said. "I don't need you to go in there. I can go in on my own. If you want to wait out here—with the Walkers."

"Risking our damn necks out here," Daryl grumbled.

Carol looked around. The place they were at—a store that boasted the name "Bad Kitty Lingerie and Accessories" and was in something of a "strip mall" with an adult video store—wasn't crawling with Walkers. It appeared to have been entirely abandoned when the world had gone to hell. There weren't even cars in the parking lot that they could have picked clean if they'd wanted.

From where they were standing? Carol saw no evidence, even, of the Walkers that she'd suggested could keep Daryl company.

They weren't exactly risking their necks. At least not right this moment.

"You're feeling afraid right now?" Carol teased. "Because—I'll protect you."

He blushed slightly.

"Or is it me you're afraid of?" Carol teased, deepening the red that was running over his face.

She pursed her lips at him.

"If you go in there," she said, "then I'll let you pick out three things for yourself—anything three things you want."

Daryl looked toward the store.

"Ain't shit in there I want," he said.

"You don't even know what's in there," Carol countered. "But stand out here, alone, if that's what you want to do."

When she turned and headed into the building, though, she noticed that he followed her. She didn't say anything until they reached the door and he pushed her out of the way enough to open it himself.

"I thought you weren't coming," she said.

"Clearin'—checking for Walkers," he responded.

She smiled, but didn't say anything in response.

Still, when the building had offered up no Walkers at all, she noticed that Daryl didn't bother to leave. She left him alone, wandering around in the semi darkness of the space, while she selected what she wanted to pack into the backpack that she'd brought.

These stores, she'd figured, were more than likely left untouched. The only time someone would be interested in such items was when they had a safe place with less to worry about than the immediate concerns like food, water, and shelter.

Now that the Governor had blown up Woodbury and flown the coop? There wasn't really any evidence that there even existed other places than the prison where people could be that secure. There wasn't even evidence that other people even still existed.

"What the hell are we here for?" Daryl asked, walking around and smoking a cigarette as he ogled the things that were around the walls of the store.

"Just a few things to—spice things up," Carol offered as a response.

"What the hell you cooking needs this kinda spicing up?" Daryl asked.

Carol glanced in his direction. To be fair to him, she didn't know what half the stuff in the place was even for. And some of it? Even if she could figure it out, she wasn't sure that she wanted to know or wanted to go there. She was here for some of the basics—some of the bland accessories. And, more than anything, she was here to see if anything here might trigger a little excitement for Michonne and Andrea.

What she was picking up for herself? Those items were just bonus prizes for being such a good friend—that's how she rationalized it to herself, at least.

"Some of it's fun, Daryl," Carol said. "You'll see."

It didn't take her too long to get a small assortment of things. There was plenty more there, but she might very well be in the mood for another ride on the bike.

And if things went well? Daryl might very well be _begging her_ to take another trip.

She found him, when her bag was packed, still perusing.

"Did you pick out your three items?" Carol asked.

It was dark enough that she couldn't tell if he blushed, but the sound that he made told her that he probably had. She smiled to herself.

"Ain't none of this shit for me," he said.

Carol hummed.

"Maybe not—maybe some is. But—some of it's for me to—wear for you. Or—you know..." She said.

He looked at her.

"For you to use on me, Daryl," she said quickly, this time her own cheeks felt hot.

He sucked his teeth. Then there was a quick smile on his face.

"Why the hell would I want this shit?" He asked, gesturing toward some of the toys nearby. "You ain't happy with what the hell I got?"

Carol felt her face burn hotter than before. She'd only been in these kinds of stores once or twice before. Once before she'd married Ed—and once when she'd gone on a trip after their marriage. She'd gone to visit family and a cousin had talked her into going then. She'd only gone because it was out of town and she was sure that the word would never get back to Ed.

And everything she'd had? She'd kept it hidden as well as she could.

She certainly wasn't well-versed on explaining anything in here to Daryl. And she was only just learning to make any kind of demands when it came to what they did together.

"I like it. You know that. This is just—different. Allows for different—things," Carol said. "Look, Daryl, if you don't see anything it's fine. I'm ready to go when you are. But—if you want your three items...you better start picking them out."

He hummed and started to walk around again, this time looking with a little more interest. She bit her lip not to laugh, in fact, at how interested he looked once he started to piece together the facts that this would be something they'd be doing together.

"Whatever I want?" He asked.

Carol hummed, staying a few feet from him and resisting the urge to steer him toward some things and away from others.

"Within reason," Carol said.

"Hell, then, why don't you pick the shit out," he commented.

"Whatever you want," Carol said, ceding the control for the moment. She reasoned with herself that, if he picked out anything she was against, she could have a talk with him about it at the prison. At least for now he'd go back with visions of—whatever the hell it was he had right now—dancing in his head.

"Five things?" Daryl said, tucking something under his arm. She'd missed what it was.

"Three things," Carol said.

"Right—five," Daryl said.

Carol growled to herself and continued to follow him.

He reached a rack that had novelty handcuffs on it and he toyed with a pair of them for a moment. She caught him glancing over his shoulder at her. She nodded her head.

"If you want them," she said.

He didn't respond, but he did pick up more than a pair off the hook.

"Daryl—what do you need all those for?" Carol asked. "I don't even have that many appendages."

He looked at her and narrowed his eyes.

"You don't know—backup," he muttered.

"But that's all your things right there," Carol said.

"This is one damn thing," he said, somewhat defensively. "All of 'em's the same thing. Counts as one thing."

Carol thought his tone was particularly interesting. For someone who hadn't cared at all for the idea before, he was suddenly dead set on getting the best out of this trip that he could. And she wasn't sure that was necessarily a bad thing.

"When was the last time you got a birthday present?" Carol asked.

"What?" He asked her, the defensive sound still in his voice as he stood there holding the handcuffs and whatever else it was he'd picked up.

"When was the last time you got a birthday present?" She asked.

He just stared at her and chewed at his lip. She hummed to herself and nodded, realizing her suspicion—at least part of it—was correct. He wasn't used to getting "presents" of any kind. This was a _novelty_ to him in more ways than one.

Carol sighed.

"Five things," she said. "The handcuffs don't count at all. Those are—my present—to you. And..."

She paused, fighting back her own body's desire to be embarrassed by something that—as a couple of mature adults—really shouldn't be all that embarrassing.

"And one of those—costumes...over there. Whichever one you like. My presents—the other five? You pick out," Carol said. "Just—be gentle."

He snorted, but she'd given him permission to look at the costumes and that's where he was headed now. She followed him. These were things that she'd secretly wondered what it would be like to wear them—what it would be like to feel the "sexy" or "slutty" or whatever feeling it was that they'd give her—but she'd never have suggested it to Ed. He wouldn't have ever had the ability to distinguish between the mentality of "being slutty for my husband" and just plain "being slutty". It would have led him to question every single time she so much as came into contact with another man—even more so than he already had.

When Daryl pointed to the one he apparently liked, Carol nodded at him and stepped forward.

"What're you doing?" He asked when she pushed him out of the way. "You said pick one out."

She made a face at him.

"I'm finding my size," she said. "It's not one size fits all...put the rest of the stuff in the bag."

"I still got four things," he commented.

"You like this too much," Carol shot back at him, digging through the rack of costumes.

Daryl chuckled and then he hummed at her.

"But I still got four things," he said in a much different tone of voice than before.

"Hurry up," Carol said. "We don't have all day."

Daryl started to walk off in the direction that he'd come from before, apparently not done "shopping" there.

"Don't worry," he said. "I kinda got an itch to get back myself."


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Andrea had gone through the things that Carol had brought and dumped onto her bed—well-meant but unexpected "gifts" and she'd finally put them in a box in a scramble—batteries and everything else Carol had thought to bring included, and she'd shoved it under the bed.

She wasn't opposed to the idea, not at all, but she didn't know how Michonne might react. The subject, after all, was quite the touchy one.

Everything was touchy with Michonne at the moment.

But the items that had Carol spreading the rumor she'd found just a few electric toothbrushes, or something of the like, couldn't _hurt_ the situation.

Still, when she hadn't known quite how to bring it up to Michonne, Andrea had finally simply given into the moment and produced the box from under the bed.

"Where'd you get this?" Michonne asked, looking at the box like it was filled with cocaine instead of with a small variety of simple, every day, items.

"A little fairy brought them," Andrea said.

Micohnne looked at her. Then she raised her eyebrows at her.

"A little _pixie_ is more like it," Michonne said. She sighed and sat back against the wall, drawing her bare feet up into the cot.

Andrea kept her distance near the other end of the cot for the moment.

"So—what is all of this?" Michonne asked.

"Suggestions," Andrea responded.

"These are your suggestions?" Michonne asked.

Andrea bit her tongue so that she didn't suggest what she was thinking—she didn't appreciate the sound of condescension in the woman's voice.

"I'm not trying to wound your ego or anything," Andrea said. "I just thought you might be interested. But—clearly you're not. Except—I don't know what to do, Mich."

Just another gesture with her eyebrows this time—classic Michonne. She was going to simply stop talking for the moment.

Andrea sighed.

"Listen—Michonne," Andrea said, "I don't care. I really don't. If—it works out and you and I have the most..."

She lowered her voice, suddenly remembering that the walls of the prison had ears, even if one pair of those ears belonged to the person who had brought the items in the first place.

"If we end up," she continued in her new volume, "having the most mind-blowing sex ever had by two people in the history of the world? That's great. If we don't? That's great too. If you—just don't like it?"

"You're the one who apparently doesn't like it," Michonne said.

Andrea bit her tongue again. Apparently Michonne was on the defensive. That should make things go super smoothly.

"Can you put your guard down for a moment?" Andrea asked. "Call in the dogs? Or should I just look for a new cell?"

Michonne frowned at her.

"We're not going to get anywhere like this, I can promise you that," Andrea said.

"Go ahead," Michonne said, though her tone said that she wasn't one hundred percent receptive. The defense was still up, at least somewhat.

Andrea licked her lips and tried to figure out how in the world she wanted to present the situation.

"OK—so...if you don't like it, you don't have to do it," Andrea said. "None of it. I don't care."

Michonne laughed to herself, a sharp sounding chuckle. Andrea looked at her and raised her eyebrows.

"You don't care?" Michonne asked. "After—you told me about that little thing with Shane? After the Governor? You care. You're going to care if you're not..."

"Woah!" Andrea barked, louder than she meant to. Immediately she reminded herself, once more, to keep her voice down. "Woah...wait a minute," Andrea said. "I've told you that I'm done talking about the Governor. I'm just—done talking about him. You want the dirty details? He wasn't great in bed. I've certainly had better. It wasn't about that."

Michonne hummed at her.

"It wasn't," Andrea said. "You left me—and whether or not you want to recognize that for what it was? You left me and you weren't the first person to leave me. I wanted the comfort he had to offer. I wanted the kindness I thought he had. He wanted to fuck me. At the time? It felt like an even trade."

"And Shane?" Michonne asked. " _Rick's_ Shane?"

Andrea snorted.

"I don't know if Rick and Shane were intimate or not," Andrea said.

"You know what I mean," Michonne said.

"It was a one-time thing," Andrea said. "A one-time, adrenaline laced—spur of the moment—fuck, Mich. That's what it was. It wasn't a fairy tale romance."

Michonne made a face.

"I'm not asking you to answer for everyone you've ever been with, Michonne," Andrea said. "It isn't fair for you to expect it from me."

Still no verbal reaction from the woman.

"Did you ever have sex in your life, Mich? That wasn't planned? That you just did because—you wanted to? In that moment? And you didn't know if you'd ever want to do it again?" Andrea asked.

Michonne looked at her, held her in a hard stare for a moment. And then she dropped it slightly. The release of tension was visible to even Andrea. Her shoulders slumped slightly.

"I wasn't permiscuous," Michonne said. "And—I only did that once."

She dropped her eyes and then brought them back to Andrea.

"And then? I wasn't very good at it—but it was too late. You could walk away from yours. I went and fell in love with mine," Michonne said.

Andrea felt a familiar ache in her throat.

"Michonne—I love you. I do. And—I don't want to go through all this. You're the one that keeps bringing it up," Andrea said. "I can say I'm sorry. I can apologize for things I didn't even do for a thousand years—but it's never going to mean anything until you decide that it does."

Michonne got up in a hurry from the cot, fast enough that it jostled Andrea until she almost howled from violent shaking of her body that created too much friction from her clothes over the burn that she'd left uncovered to try to "let it breathe" for a little while.

"Do. Not. Go," Andrea barked out as soon as she got her breath. "Mich—seriously? Don't walk out that door. One way or another? We've got to deal with this. Because I can't—and I won't—keep doing this. You shut me out before. You let me be around you, but you didn't let me be with you. You wouldn't talk to me. I'm not your Walker pets. I'm not going to just—follow you around with a chain around my neck. If you want this? If you want me? Then you have to sit down. And we have to figure this out. And if you don't? Then go."

Michonne stood there a moment, her back to Andrea. Andrea wondered, for a moment, if she might very well walk out of the cell—even in the state of undress for bed that she was in—and simply leave this conversation entirely.

But she surprised her, because she returned and sat on the bed. She rubbed her face in frustration.

"If you answer me this," Michonne said. "Then—I promise you. I won't ask you anything else about him. About—anyone."

Andrea knew it was a promise that Michonne wasn't going to be able to keep, but it was one that she wanted badly enough to pretend to believe it at the moment.

"What?" Andrea asked.

"Did you enjoy it more with them?" Michonne asked. She looked at Andrea then. "Did they make you feel—better? Than I do?"

Andrea swallowed.

Because behind the question? She could hear so much—behind the question.

"No," she said. "Nobody—has ever—made me feel better than you do."

Michonne looked visibly relieved after a second had passed. Enough that Andrea felt her own tension release enough that she could smile at her. She raised an eyebrow to tease Michonne.

"When you're not making me feel horrible because I'm not performing at your command," Andrea added.

She got a frown, but Michonne actually couldn't hold it this time. The corners of her lips shook ever so slightly with the fight to keep from being amused.

She was being an asshole, and she was fully aware of it.

Michonne sighed, but there was still a hint of a smile on her features.

"So—is it just that I'm not crazy enough? Like them? You just need some—total psychopath? And I'm not crazy enough?" Michonne asked.

Andrea narrowed her eyes at Michonne.

"Should I be worried about Rick?" Michonne asked, the smile coming out more now, her voice low enough that it almost came out in a hiss.

Andrea groaned.

"Oh—you're plenty crazy enough," Andrea said. "Don't you worry about that. And—at this rate? You're going to drive me to be the queen of crazy."

"I'm sorry," Michonne said as quietly as she'd spoken before.

She gestured toward the box.

"So—something here...is it supposed to do the trick?" Michonne asked.

"I don't know," Andrea admitted honestly. "But—I can tell you what'll help."

Michonne rolled her eyes in Andrea's direction and hummed in question.

"Mich—just don't _worry_ about it," Andrea said. "Just—enjoy it for what it is. If it happens? Great. If it doesn't? Great. Just—let's enjoy the in between part of it."

"OK...OK..." Michonne said. "But—it wasn't the same for you. OK, because I came. There wasn't any problem with that."

Andrea smiled.

"What can I say," she teased. "I'm just—I've got skills."

Michonne frowned at her and Andrea laughed.

"And you were in the right place, and I got lucky," Andrea said. "If you'd let me try again? At all? It might not work the same way. It's a chance, Mich. But—I know that you get stressed about it and then you're just like..."

She stopped.

"Oh no," Michonne said. "You've started, now finish. I just what? What am I doing wrong or—what am I not doing? I want to know. If you have some insight? I want to know."

Andrea sighed.

"OK—and I'm just going on twice," Andrea said. "But you get stressed and then you just—give up. But you give up when—Michonne, you're just getting started."

Michonne cocked an eyebrow at her, but she gestured that she should "go on" with her hand.

Andrea felt her cheeks burn hot. She wasn't exactly accustomed to telling someone what they were doing wrong. It was always easier to just roll with whatever it was, hope for something better later, and accept that there might not be anything better.

"I'm just saying a little more enthusiasm and a little less—angrily demanding that I come?" Andrea offered. "You didn't even—use your hands."

"I'm sorry," Michonne said sarcastically. "I'm a little new at this—and you didn't either."

"And you didn't need it," Andrea countered.

For a moment there was a standoff between them. There was silence.

But, at least they were talking. And at least Michonne was sitting, settled on the bed, and she wasn't trying to run out the door. And, at least for the moment, Michonne wasn't making this about something else that Andrea had done with anyone else—and for that? Andrea was most thankful.

Michonne visibly swallowed, turned her eyes away, and nodded her head.

"You're right," she said. "You're right. But when you...I just started to get concerned that—maybe you were just..."

She stopped.

"I was what?" Andrea asked. "I told you mine. You've gotta tell me yours."

Michonne made something of a snorting sound.

"Maybe you were just—humoring me," Michonne said. "Like you said you were with—the person we're not talking about? Just—while we were together."

Andrea cleared her throat.

It was, in Michonne's defense, perhaps a fair concern, even if it wasn't very flattering.

"I'll be honest with you, Mich," Andrea said. "When you first found me? And—I didn't know if you were crazy or if you were—safe. But I knew that you were keeping me safe? And I knew that—everyone else had left me? I wanted to do whatever I had to do to stay with you. But—that? That passed a long time before that night. And now? Michonne..."

"Go ahead," Michonne prompted when Andrea stopped.

"When I was in that chair? And I knew I was going to die?" Andrea said. "The only thing that—I could think about was—I was glad it was me that was there."

Silence fell between them again. Andrea waited for Michonne to say something. She studied her features, but all she found there was something she wasn't sure she trusted herself to interpret. Michonne almost looked like she was trying not to let her features screw up and give way to tears.

Michonne swallowed through it, nodded her head at Andrea again, and then forced a light smile.

She gestured toward the box on the floor that had started the whole thing.

"So?" She said. "If we're going to—test this out. Where do you want to start?"


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"OK," Carol said. "I think—it's probably OK to take these off?"

She shook her hands, causing the handcuffs to clank against the poles on the bed to which they'd been fastened. She hadn't really had too much reason to test them as of yet, but she didn't think they were very good quality. She could, if she wanted to, probably break them to free herself.

She hadn't felt the need to do that, though, even if she was ready to be free of them.

Daryl came back to her, resting his body against hers, and entertained her breasts with his tongue for a moment before he returned to kiss her again.

"You done?" He asked, his voice softer than it had been all day.

Carol hummed at him.

"For tonight? I think—keys, please?" Carol asked.

He smirked at her.

"Yeah...yeah...in a minute," he responded. "We ain't even gone through half the shit."

"We've gone through enough for tonight, don't you think?" Carol responded. "Pace ourselves? You don't want to play with all of your toys on Christmas morning. Then there won't be anything exciting for later."

Daryl narrowed his eyes at her teasing.

"Or—we try all the damn things out now and play with it more later," he said.

Carol sighed.

"Keys? Handcuffs? Please, Daryl?" She said.

She tried to make her voice sincere enough that he'd listen. She tried to implore him without begging. She didn't want to have to admit that the handcuffs made her uncomfortable, but she also didn't want to be forced to wear them any longer. She felt like he'd had his fun with chaining her up—now it should be done.

"I could—uh—we could do something else? Maybe—maybe a lot more fun? If I had my hands," Carol said.

He responded by kissing her again, trailing a hand over her stomach and up to squeeze at her breast.

What he enjoyed most about the handcuffs was that it left her open to him. He was exploring—investigating even—like he'd never seen her body before. It was flattering. She'd be willing to let him investigate as much and as long as he wanted—but she'd prefer to do it with the freedom of her hands.

She cleared her throat.

"Daryl," she said, a little sharper than before. "Please—take the handcuffs off? Then we can talk about—whatever you want to do?"

Daryl looked at her.

"You OK?" He asked. "I didn't—hurt you."

"Noooo," Carol said. "Just—keys?"

He continued to stare. Daryl had a certain way of looking at her that would've unnerved her if it were anyone else. Most of them thought they could stare at you until you told them whatever they wanted to know—Rick certainly thought he could—but Daryl had a way of looking at her that made her think that he already knew whatever it was. He could just read her mind.

"Daryl—I don't like the handcuffs, OK?" Carol said.

He hummed in question, his version of asking "Why?" or requesting more information.

Carol licked her lips.

"I thought I would like them," she said. "I did—but I don't. I don't like the—I'd just rather have my hands? I don't have to use them—promise—I'll even—I'll hold onto the bars? I just don't like..."

Before she could finish trying to piece together her explanation, though, Daryl scrambled for the keys that he'd tossed onto the little bedside table. He brought them over and unfastened the cuffs quickly enough, removing them entirely from Carol's wrists and the bed.

Then, without saying anything, he got up and, with rather jerky motions, moved to gather the others out of the bag that they'd brought from the place.

"I'm sorry, Daryl," Carol apologized when he stopped to light a cigarette, the cuffs in his hand. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to ruin your fun. It's not that..."

But this time he cut her off by speaking. He looked at her, something akin to anger on his face, and pointed a finger in her direction.

"I ain't pissed about the damn—handcuffs," he said sharply. "I'm pissed because..."

He paused and Carol didn't say anything. She knew well enough that, when Daryl got frustrated with something, it was best to just let him finish.

"You wore them the whole damn time!" He said, no concern at all for who else might hear. "You wore 'em the whole time an' you didn't tell my ass you hated it?"

Carol swallowed.

"I didn't hate it, Daryl," she said. "I didn't—I just don't like them. But I didn't hate it. And I didn't hate them."

Daryl walked over to the door of the cell and leaned out of it, beyond the blanket that Carol had hung, and threw the handcuffs, keys and all, so that there was a loud clatter that rang out as they went in whatever directions they chose across the concrete floor.

He came back and stood, puffing at his cigarette, for a moment.

"You don't have to..." Carol started.

"No," Daryl said. "I ain't—I'm not doing that. I'm not—using them if you don't like them. I don't—I'm not gonna make you do shit."

Carol nodded at him.

"I know that," she said. "I just—wanted you to enjoy it."

He laughed, but it sounded ironic more than anything.

"What the hell you think I wanted? I wanted you to enjoy it," Daryl said. "I ain't touchin' the rest of that shit neither. Not until—until you can be serious about what the hell ya do and you don't like—really like."

Carol nodded at him again.

"Everything else tonight?" Carol offered. "I promise—I liked it. I really, really liked it. The rest? I don't even know. We'll have to—find out together?"

Daryl shook his head at her.

"Not if you gonna lie to me," he said. "Go back to what the hell we was doin'. It weren't broke. Didn't need fixing."

Carol smiled to herself.

"It wasn't broke," she said. "But—I won't lie either. Still—if you'll come over here? I think—if you want? It might be nice to just—finish up the night? In the old fashioned way?"

He stared at her like he wasn't coming, but Carol finally got up and went to him. And it didn't take more than a kiss or two, along with the running of her hands over the muscles of his shoulders and down his arms, squeezing them as she went, to convince him to come back to bed.

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"We're cutting your damn fingernails tomorrow," Michonne said. "There has to be a pair of clippers in here somewhere."

Andrea chuckled at her and moved just enough to push her body against MIchonne's more. She hummed.

"You could use a trim too, Edward Scissorhands," Andrea teased.

"Hey!" Michonne said, immediately lowering her voice when she heard the echo of her own word come back to her in the cell. "I stopped immediately and you are the one who said you wanted me to use my hands."

"Hands, not claws," Andrea corrected.

Michonne kissed the side of Andrea's face and trailed one of the offending hands down her stomach, careful to stay to the right, and slipped it between her legs, teasing her again, this time with nothing more than the pads of her fingers.

Andrea gasped at the start of the sensation and then moved her legs, allowing Michonne better access.

"I'm not used to you—being so affectionate," Andrea purred.

Michonne stopped for a second, but when Andrea looked at her like she feared she'd done something wrong, she started the action again and let her mind trail for the moment.

Hearing it straight out like that, Michonne got a feeling in the pit of her stomach. Andrea wasn't used to her being so affectionate. Andrea wasn't used to this. She wasn't used to—what? What was even the greatest thing about what they'd spent the last hour doing?

It was nothing except for the fact that they'd spent the last hour doing it.

She'd asked for Michonne to slow down. She'd asked for her not to worry. She'd asked for them just to— _play_. And if the play went well? _Great_. And if it didn't? _Great_.

And they'd spent their time in a sweaty tangle of the new sheets and blankets on the cot.

Michonne had never spent this much time in bed with anyone. Admittedly? Even before all of this when she'd had all the time in the world—even if she hadn't realized it yet—for such activities? She'd never spent this kind of time just _enjoying_ someone.

She was almost certain, at this moment, that she knew Andrea's body as well as she knew her own, and Andrea had a fair idea of the road map of her skin. Stretchmarks, dimples, curves, bumps, lumps—everything was revealed to the other.

And in the end? With enough time and a little effort?

Michonne had felt victorious when she'd finally found the right combination—one she was already worrying she'd never find again—to make Andrea's body tense up and make her offer up a sound that wasn't entirely related to human speech.

It felt like a victory. It felt every bit as good as any case she'd ever won in court. She'd silently congratulated herself, too, in the same way that she always had when she'd walked out the courtroom after a win.

Andrea had congratulated her too. And—after Michonne had mentioned it—had sworn that it wasn't fake. None of the evening was fake. Not one moment of it. Not one of the feelings.

Michonne was trying very hard not to let the voice in her mind suggest that the declaration, too, was as fake as she feared everything else might be.

The voice, she told herself, was nothing more than the cruel voice that had plagued her most of her life.

She jumped slightly, pulled out of her daydream by the touch of Andrea's fingers on her face.

"I'm sorry..." Andrea stammered. "You OK? Mich?"

Michonne focused her eyes on her. She hated when Andrea looked afraid like that. And she hated knowing that she'd put that fear in her eyes, whether it was through her current actions or ones from previous interactions between them.

Michonne offered her the best smile she could and nodded.

"Where'd you go?" Andrea asked.

"Nowhere," Michonne said. "I'm here. I'm right here."

Andrea moved enough to kiss her—soft and slow and nice. Michonne closed her eyes to it. She responded by nipping at Andrea's lip when the blonde moved to break the kiss and she earned a soft laugh.

"You know, I don't think we really even needed anything," Andrea said.

"Oh—I think it helped," Michonne responded. "You liked that rabbit. So don't say you didn't."

Andrea laughed.

"OK," she said. "I admit—that can stay. But—I still think that it was just extra, don't you? I think you—did great. I think we really could've done without."

Michonne hummed at her and pulled away just enough to change her position and balance over Andrea with a hand on either side of her.

"But you're not suggesting we take the rabbit back to the store?" She teased.

Andrea smiled.

"I wouldn't want the poor thing to feel—rejected," she responded back.

Michonne hummed at her and moved her body, so that she was closer against Andrea and when she dipped her hips, they could rub against one another. Andrea hissed at her, though, and Michonne immediately backed off, realizing that she'd rubbed—accidentally and in the process—against the burn that wasn't quite as healed as they might like.

Immediately she did the only thing she could think to do in the moment—a reaction that surprised even her—and she moved to put her face beside Andrea's, kissing her quickly and softly.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry..." she said.

Andrea pushed her off gently and Michonne went where she suggested, hovering over her once more. Andrea's face was drawn into concern.

"It's OK," Andrea said. "Mich? It's OK. It was an accident—and—when the burn's better? That was nice."

Michonne stared at her.

"I never meant to hurt you," Michonne admitted.

Andrea smiled at her and shook her head.

"It's just—it doesn't hurt much, Mich," Andrea said. "It's fine. You didn't mean to do it. I know that."

Michonne shook her head and sighed, moving to settle back in beside Andrea's body in the small space left in the cot for her. She ran her finger over Andrea's breasts, purposefully teasing her nipples to stand at attention.

"I meant—I didn't mean it then," Michonne said. "But—I never meant it either. I _never_ meant to hurt you."


	23. Chapter 23

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"So we're going to need to follow up on that lead about livestock," Michonne said. "If it's in the area? We need to move on that before the Walkers do. If they haven't eaten everything already."

Glenn was staring at her, his brows furrowed slightly, and she couldn't tell if his expression was because he was listening to her or because he was amazed that she was talking—or maybe it was something else.

She stopped speaking for a moment, furrowed her own brows at him in response, and stared back at him. Immediately he snapped out of the semi-trance that he'd seemed to have sank into.

"Yeah...uh—yeah. That's—we can do that, but we're going to need something to do with it," he said. "If we bring cows or whatever—back here? We've got to have somewhere to put them."

Michonne rolled her eyes.

"I hadn't thought of that," she responded, her words dripping with sarcasm. "Tyreese. He said that he's pretty handy with a hammer—Walkers not included. And he's going to build us some pens down here. We split the yard. Livestock and crops. Hershel says he can handle helping us with planting."

Glenn nodded his head.

"Yeah—the crops," he said. He scratched at his neck. "That's been planned for a while now. We haven't gotten around to it, but since we got here? Hershel's been kind of making plans for us to start growing our own crops."

Michonne sighed and nodded.

"Well now it's time to stop planning and start doing," she said. "The fact of the matter is that we're going to run out of food. I've been all around this area—three times even. I know what's out there and what isn't. For a while? We'll find what we need. We may even have enough to get through the winter without too much of a struggle. But then? We're going to start to starve if we don't move. That means all of us—we'll either have to move or we'll die trying to stay. So, if we're not going to move? We need to stop planning and we need to start doing."

Glenn had slipped back into the absent stare of before. When Michonne fell silent, though, he nodded slightly.

"The crops—but livestock?" Glenn asked.

"Eggs, milk, _meat_. Horsepower," Michonne said. "We need those things. And that's something we need to act on sooner rather than later. I'd rather have what's out there than let the Walkers have it."

Glenn cleared his throat.

"Something wrong?" Michonne asked.

"I've never—heard you talk this much before," Glenn said.

Michonne laughed to herself at that and walked a few more steps toward the part of the fences she'd been wandering toward since she'd asked Glenn to walk with her.

He was, as she'd been informed by Carol, the one who organized most of the runs. He was also receptive to Michonne—something that she didn't really feel could be said about everyone else. They tolerated her, sure, but some were a little warmer about it than others. Glenn was a little easier to talk to, at least when he wasn't staring at her like she was an anomaly.

"I'm not as quiet as you think I am," Michonne said. "And—a lot of things around here might change."

Glenn chuckled to himself at the statement.

"We're talking about becoming farmers and ranchers," Glenn said. "In a prison. And now? You're talking and laughing? I have a feeling a lot of things could change."

He wandered along with Michonne for a moment and then she stopped her steps. She turned back toward him and took a breath. She looked around. Every now and again, she could hear Andrea laughing. She was involved in some kind of chore or another with Carol and Karen—one of the women that Michonne didn't know too well yet—and whatever it was they were talking about, it induced laughter in all three of them. From time to time, it rang out and Michonne could pick Andrea's laugh out of the sound of them all—she felt like she could hear her voice anywhere right now.

She liked hearing Andrea laugh. She'd never realized, before, how much she enjoyed that sound. She'd never realized how much more she wanted to hear it.

And if this was the place that she felt _comfortable_ enough to make that sound a regular occurrence?

"You love Maggie?" Michonne asked.

Glenn chuckled to himself.

"Well—of course," he said.

Michonne hummed.

"Is that question always so easy?" She asked, mocking his somewhat flippant response. He clearly understood her because he dropped his eyes a moment in something like "shame" and then brought them back to look at her again.

"I love her," he said.

"And you want—what?" Michonne asked. "A life together? Children? Safety? To sleep at night?"

He visibly swallowed.

"Just a normal life," he said.

Michonne nodded her head.

"That's what I want too," Michonne said. "A _normal_ life. And if we're going to have that? We need to eat."

Glenn, serious now, nodded at her.

"Won't the animals draw Walkers?" He asked.

Michonne shrugged.

"They might," she said. "We need to talk about the fences. If they'll hold? If they need to be—reinforced?"

"Tyreese? Can he help with that?" Glenn asked.

"The only way we know is to ask him," Michonne said. "I'm sure he'll have some ideas."

"Have you talked any of this over with Rick?" Glenn asked.

Michonne cocked an eyebrow at Glenn.

"Do I need to talk over ideas that are for—everyone—with Rick?" She asked.

"He's the leader," Glenn said. "Everything sort of gets run by Rick. At least—when he's—when he's not having a hard time of things."

Michonne laughed to herself.

"Maybe one of the first things that needs to be discussed is why we have a—leader—who sometimes can't lead," Michonne said. "I'm not trying to start anything, but—one man in power? It's not a good idea. You see what it did for Woodbury."

Glenn looked offended.

"Rick isn't..." He started.

"I wasn't saying he was," Michonne said quickly to keep from being understood. The last thing she wanted was to get herself and Andrea run out of the prison for something like treason against Rick. "I'm just suggesting that something a little more—equally distributed? It might work better. Everyone here has skills. They have to or they wouldn't be here. Something different? Where everyone's skills are put into play? Even yours—Glenn you handle the runs because you're good at that, right? You're the one who knows—who knows how to get in and get out. Who knows—how to judge a location and see—is it safe? Is it worth going into? We need to do something where everyone's strengths are building on everyone else's strengths. Don't you think?"

"We need a leader," Glenn said. He looked around almost as though he was nervous that they'd be overheard. They wouldn't be. There were others out and about, but everyone was occupied. No one was interested in their conversation for the moment.

Big brother wasn't watching.

And for Michonne to know that? For her own paranoia not to be kicking in? She knew it had to be true.

"We can have a leader," Michonne said. "It can be Rick, if that's what everyone wants. What I think, though, is that we'd benefit from hearing from everyone. Rick can't—if he objects to me saying we need to get our asses in gear? We need to prepare to live? Then—maybe he's not leader material?"

Glenn looked around again, visibly swallowed once more, and nodded.

"He's going to be for it," Glenn said. "But—we need to plan."

"Of course," Michonne said. "Why do you think I'm bringing it up to you?"

Glenn started walking this time and Michonne matched her steps to him, letting him walk just a half step in front of her until he spoke again.

"Do you think he's coming back?" Glenn asked. "The Governor?"

Michonne was reluctant to answer, but finally she did. If she was going to start to find her place in this prison? If she and Andrea were going to start _demanding_ as much respect as anyone else had here? She needed to start building it on honesty.

"He's coming back," Michonne said. "I'm almost certain he is. While we're planning for winter? For—the future? Whatever there may be of it? We need to plan for that too."

Glenn stopped walking then and lined himself up in front of Michonne again. He was obviously concerned and had been thinking about this for longer than he was admitting to.

"I want him dead," he said. "For—what he did to Maggie? I want..."

Michonne nodded her head.

"I understand," she said, failing to point out the thought that crossed her mind that what he'd done to Maggie really wasn't all that much in the grand scheme of the Governor's offenses.

"I sometimes think it might be better to move on," Glenn admitted. "This place? It's safe—right now. But we already know that it's not always safe. He came here to destroy it."

"But he didn't," Michonne said. "So we already know it's safer than he planned for it to be. We just need to make sure that it's even safer when he comes."

"If we do all this to the prison and then he destroys it?" Glenn said. He shook his head. "It's double the blow to everyone. It's—he takes the prison, but he also takes that work from us. That—future. And that's assuming everyone lives—everyone gets out alive."

Michonne nodded.

"We need an escape plan," she said. "Always—always a plan B. A plan C or D even. But—we also need to focus on this place. Focus on preparing for him and for what's to come. Make sure we destroy him—he doesn't get a chance to destroy us."

Glenn didn't look so sure.

Michonne cleared her throat.

"Someone—someone told me—and it really stuck with me—that we have to live," Michonne said. "I want the Governor dead. I really do. But—we don't know where he is. And we can go out looking for him. We can go out searching. And if someone's going to do that? I'm in. But—we have to live. If we don't? We let him win before he even returns."

She felt her stomach do a strange flip at the words as she spoke them. She felt strange, even to herself, that she was trying, so hard, to truly embrace this for herself.

It still felt foreign to her, but it felt good. It felt like something she truly wanted. She wanted to live. She hadn't done that in so very long—if she'd ever really done it at all.

"For Andrea?" Glenn asked.

Michonne hummed at Glenn in question.

"You asked me if I loved Maggie," Glenn said. "You asked me if I wanted this—this whole life—for Maggie. For my life with Maggie. You want it—for Andrea?"

Michonne felt a catch in her chest. She swallowed and she nodded her head.

"With Andrea," she said. "I want this life—with Andrea."

Glenn's lips curled ever so slightly in a smile.

"So you two are...?" He said, gesturing with his head to finish out the question.

Michonne simply nodded. She didn't have to have the exact words to get the gist. And neither did he.

He smiled a little more broadly.

"What?" Michonne challenged.

He shook his head.

"Just—I didn't expect it, I guess," Glenn said. "I mean—it's great—it's really...it's great. But—Carol and Daryl. You and Andrea—everything so..."

He stopped, shaking his head.

"It's great," he repeated. "I just—didn't expect it."

Michonne swallowed again.

"Me either," she admitted, determined not to say anything really more on the matter.

"So..." Glenn said, laughing nervously to himself and scratching at some probably phantom itch. "So are you—do you—I don't know how it works. Are you getting married?"

Michonne shrugged.

"We just _are_ ," she said. "That's all there is to it. And that's all you need to know about it. I asked you down here to see if you'd help me hunt down and catch livestock—find trucks for them or whatever..."

Before she could continue, he interrupted her.

"I will," he said quickly. "I will. I'm in. We'll talk to the others. Work out a plan? I'm in."

Michonne nodded.

"Thank you," she said.

He smiled at her.

"And—I've got something," he said, a little touch of mischief to his voice. "Something—call it a wedding present or a being present or whatever. I'll—uh—I'll drop it off? In your cell?"

Michonne rolled her eyes at him.

"I'm not talking about this anymore," she said.

Glenn laughed.

"My lips are sealed," he said. "But—congratulations, or whatever?"

"You want to talk to Rick about the cows or should I?" Michonne asked.

"I get it," Glenn said. "I'll go—talk to him. See what Hershel thinks."


	24. Chapter 24

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Andrea left dinner a few minutes before Michonne, carrying with her one of the first pots of hot water for baths that came off the fire. Carol would call Michonne later to pick up another pot—when one had been returned and water was heated—for her own bath. So Michonne had stayed behind a moment to help wash dishes up instead of forcing Andrea to do it after she'd spent the day already helping with the domestic chores that Michonne knew she hated being forced into constantly.

Michonne nearly dropped the dishes she was carrying, though, when she heard Andrea scream. She put down what she had and ran in the direction of the cell, not sure what she was running toward, until she saw the blonde coming down the corridor—clearly frazzled—in her direction.

Andrea, admittedly slightly larger in stature than herself, would have taken Michonne off her feet with the impact of their collision, but Michonne had taken a moment to prepare herself for it. Though stopping Andrea wasn't easy, it didn't quite land her on her ass like she'd thought it might. She bear hugged Andrea when she could, just to try and calm her nerves.

"What is it? What is it? Andrea—tell me. What is it?" Michonne repeated, choosing to do nothing more for the moment than stand there holding Andrea so that she couldn't hurt herself or anyone else while she came down from whatever phantom threat had spooked her.

Michonne didn't know what to expect. She honestly didn't know what she had expected when she'd ran for the cell. The only thing she knew was that she needed to get there and get there quickly.

She almost laughed to herself, feeling Andrea start to relax in her arms, because she'd half expected to find that the Governor, somehow, had managed to sneak past all of them into the prison. She almost expected that he would have made it to their cell—no less—and that he would have been sitting there, waiting, for Andrea to come.

 _Fear could make you believe the impossible._

"Shhh shhh shhh," Michonne hissed. "It's OK. I'm here," she said when Andrea was starting to calm and come to her senses.

The Governor wasn't there, but something had clearly spooked Andrea. And whether or not it was squeaky mattress springs or some other flash of terror, Michonne wasn't going to judge. She'd danced with her own demons before. And for a while? They'd come for her at the most unexpected times—and in the most unexpected ways.

Michonne pushed Andrea off her enough to get her hands on her face. She held Andrea's face steady. It was streaked with a few stray tears that had leaked out, and her eyes were wide with fear, but she was calming down. She was coming into herself. She started showing it by simply shaking her head at Michonne.

"What's wrong?" Michonne asked.

A head shake.

"Tell me," Michonne said. "I don't care. OK? I don't care—who it was or what it was. I don't care. Whatever—whatever it was? I'll take care of it, OK? You can—if you want to? You can help me? What's wrong?"

All she got in response was a string of apologies from Andrea. There wasn't anything concrete there to work with. It was just sputtered apologies.

So Michonne pushed her gently toward the cell. Andrea walked with her, continuing the apologies that Michonne was ignoring for the moment, but the blonde pulled back just as they got to the cell door.

"Mich..." she said, the first indication that she was even aware of who she was talking to or what she was doing.

Michonne stopped and looked at her, furrowing her brows.

"What is it?" Michonne asked.

Andrea shook her head.

"I don't—I can't—I don't want them..." Andrea said. "Please. Mich?"

Michonne held a hand up to Andrea, signaling that she stay where she was, and she went into the cell. The pot of water was on the table. Andrea had come straight in and put it down. She'd gotten her towel and the washcloth. It was beside the pot. She hadn't been spooked then. Michonne turned toward the bed.

Underwear. A clean dress of the ones that Andrea was wearing. She'd started to put her clothes out and all was fine.

At the moment Michonne didn't know if she was in the cell chasing ghosts, spiders, or even the garden snakes that sometimes got into the prison—but she was searching for anything that might be in there and might require some brand of exorcism or expulsion.

Then her eyes fell on them.

And she knew immediately what it was.

Something so innocent. Something that otherwise would have been amusing—to anyone else really. But considering the circumstances?

Michonne picked them up. It was a pair of novelty handcuffs. It was the variety that every chintzy store had for bridal showers and other such ridiculous. It was the type that you used for the entertainment, but a decent tug would send them falling to the floor anyway. Tied to it was a key of equally poor quality, not that they really even needed that—they were practically disposable—and tied to that was a scrap of paper.

Scratched on it was the word "Congratulations" and a smiley face.

Glenn had given them a present. They would have laughed at it normally.

But it just wasn't funny when Andrea's wrists were still healing, wrapped half the time, from where she'd tried to sacrifice her hands for her freedom in the Governor's chair. Glenn hadn't thought about it—it was an honest mistake—but Michonne understood the problem.

She stepped outside the cell where Andrea was standing, leaned with her back against the concrete wall and her fingers tangled in her hair—no doubt beating herself up over the natural overreaction.

"Hey..." Michonne said, getting her attention.

Andrea looked at her and visibly tensed. Michonne shook her head. She dropped the novelty cuffs on the floor, dragged them closer to her with her toe, and then ground them into the concrete with the hell of her boot. Just the weight of her body was enough to destroy the toys that were made of nothing more than reinforced plastic.

She shook her head at Andrea.

"You're never going back into handcuffs," Michonne said. "Never. OK? I promise. I will _never_ ask you to do that. Never."

Andrea stared at her and stammered out another apology, apparently the only words that she could manage at the moment.

Michonne shook her head.

"Glenn? I guess—he just wanted to give us something? Something funny? And—I know they're not funny. But—he didn't," Michonne said.

She laughed to herself.

"Men don't—they don't think," she said.

Andrea didn't laugh. She was still shaken. That was something that would normally get at least a smile out of her. Michonne kicked the pieces of the destroyed novelty cuffs across the floor, not caring where they went, and then she stepped forward and put her hands on Andrea enough to pull her to her and walk her through the cell door.

"They're gone," Michonne said. "And there's—nothing. There's nothing in here now. See?"

"I'm sorry—I'm so sorry," Andrea said, this time with a ltitle less urgency than before. "I didn't mean to scream like that. I just—they were there and I didn't see them and then? I touched them when I sat down to take my shoes off and..."

Michonne shushed her again and pulled her to her again.

"You don't have to explain, OK?" Michonne said. "You don't. Not to me. Not to Glenn. Not to anyone. You don't. You didn't want them. You didn't like them. They're gone. That's all. Now? Sit. Let's get your shoes off. You'll take a bath—and I'll take a bath. And we'll go to bed?"

Andrea nodded and sat down with the appearance of someone who had been in deep sleep and suddenly been woken.

"I'll help you," Michonne offered. "We need to wash the—injuries. We need to rewrap them anyway. And that's easier for me to do than it is for you to do it."

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Andrea woke up out of her sleep with a start. She couldn't remember, as she lie there, what it was that she'd dreamed about, but she knew whatever it was had been the something that had woken her up. She felt like her pulse was elevated and she assumed it was leftover from the dream.

She felt, too, groggy and tired—more than she usually did from just waking in the middle of the night. She eased out of the bed, fumbled to find the bucket in the dark, and relieved herself. She felt woozy in general.

Something they'd eaten wasn't settling well and her sleep, so far, hadn't been peaceful.

She washed her hands in the bowl that had been left in the cell after their baths and she returned to the bed, her eyes now as adjusted as they would be to the blackness.

She eased her body down onto the bed again and arranged herself under the covers and next to Michonne's body. She'd done well because she hadn't woken Michonne. Michonne was—for the first time since Andrea had known her—actually giving herself over to some relatively deep sleep.

And it made Andrea feel good, at least, that Michonne felt comfortable enough to sleep that way with her.

She moved herself a little closer to the woman and was almost surprised when Michonne moved her arm, put it over Andrea's body again, and pulled her just a little tighter to her.

"Don't think about it anymore," Michonne whispered.

Andrea laughed low in her throat.

"I thought you were asleep," Andrea said.

"I was," Michonne responded. "When I wasn't awake—worrying about your worrying. Don't think about it anymore, Andrea."

"I had a bad dream," Andrea said. "It wasn't on purpose."

"I know you did," Michonne said. "I heard you—muttering—in your sleep. Who do you think woke you up?"

Andrea smiled to herself.

"I thought the dream woke me up," Andrea said.

Michonne hummed in the negative.

"What would I do without you to wake me up?" Andrea teased.

Michonne hummed again. She was tired. It was clear in her voice—even her hum sounded tired. She snuggled in tighter to Andrea and rubbed her lips against the back of Andrea's neck.

"You'd keep fighting until you woke yourself up," Michonne responded. "Or—at the rate you were going? Woke the whole prison up. Then I guess Carol would probably come in here and wake you up."

Andrea snorted at Michonne's tone of voice.

Then she felt a wave of the nausea wash over again, the anxiety unsettling to her stomach and all her faculties when it came at her like a tidal wave.

"I'm so sorry, Michonne," Andrea said. "I—it was so silly to react so badly over something so—stupid. I'm not...that irrational."

Now Michonne laughed quietly.

"I know you're not irrational," Michonne said. "At least—not most of the time. But that? It wasn't irrational. I remember that when I..."

Michonne broke off.

"When you what, Mich?" Andrea asked.

Michonne hummed.

"What?" She asked. "Nothing...it's nothing. You're not irrational. We all have _things_ these days. You're not irrational. And—I don't care and nobody else who asked if you were OK cares. They were worried, not angry."

Andrea swallowed hard against the lump of anxiety or embarrassment—or ill-sitting possum stew, whichever the case may be.

"I won't—freak out like that again," Andrea promised Michonne.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Michonne said. "And—don't promise not to do things that you have every right to do. The wounds we can see—they aren't the only ones that have to heal. Not for you. Not for anyone. Just—please stop worrying about it? Go to sleep?"

Andrea hummed.

"OK, Mich," Andrea said. "But—what were you going to say?"

She got a hum from Michonne, but no real response.

"Mich? What happened to you? Out there? Before you met me?" Andrea asked. "You never—you'd never tell me."

Michonne hummed again.

"Not tonight," Michonne said. "It's late. I'm tired. And you need to stop worrying—about everything—and go to sleep."

Andrea laughed to herself.

She could only hope that one day Michonne would open up to her enough to tell her some story of her life. She wanted to feel like she knew Michonne, and she did know her pretty well, but she knew nothing of the woman before the day she found her in the woods.

Michonne always managed to skirt the question. And she always managed to dance around the stories.

"But you'll tell me tomorrow?" Andrea asked.

"If you'll stop worrying and go to sleep?" Michonne responded, some amusement in her voice.

Andrea hummed in the affirmative this time, hoping to play her own version of "Let's Make a Deal."

"I'll think about it," Michonne responded.

But she did laugh quietly when Andrea reached a hand back and popped her on the thigh for her response.


	25. Chapter 25

**AN: Here we go, another little chapter here for whoever's reading. A lot more to come here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol didn't mean to have as much information as she had on the rest of the group in the prison. The building echoed. Even when she tried not to listen? She still seemed to hear everything.

And, if she was honest, she liked hearing and knowing all that she did. Once upon a time, entertainment came in many forms. There were books to read and there were movies to watch. To escape a moment? She could live the reality of a fictional universe. She could contemplate the "what ifs" of people who weren't her—of people who didn't even exist.

But those things were gone now.

And, maybe, that's what the "gossip" around the prison had become. Everyone had a story. Everyone had their own interactions. Though Carol didn't spread gossip, and though she kept what she heard to herself—forever pretending that she was unaware that, if she could hear it, everyone else could probably hear it too—she listened to everything that happened as it unfolded around her.

She knew that Michonne and Andrea were doing everything they could to connect. And she knew that they were doing better—much better—than they had when they'd first brought Andrea back to the prison, barely clinging to life.

She knew that Michonne had a story—just like everyone else—but she was reluctant to share it. Andrea pressed for it, almost every night, but almost every night Michonne had some excuse or another not to share. So far? She'd shared nothing that Carol had heard beyond the fact that, before she became the katana wielding woman they knew her as, Michonne had been a lawyer and she'd been more of fighting for human rights than she had been of fighting anything else—much less Walkers.

Carol knew that Andrea was calming. She was healing and she was getting stronger. She was as excited as the rest of them as they planned things to come in the prison and worked to make them happen. At night, though? Her nightmares were becoming more vivid. They were becoming more regular. When she was awake and part of the group? When she was part of the living world around her? She was happy and healthy and excited about the future. Her subconscious mind, though, was apparently letting go much more slowly of what had happened.

Carol understood that too. She had her own nightmares. She knew that Daryl had them too.

Maybe? Maybe everyone had nightmares these days—maybe it was part of life. But Andrea's were still fresh, perhaps, and therefore they made her nights longer than some of the others.

Carol knew that she wouldn't share them with Michonne. She claimed not to remember them, when Michonne pressed for information, but Carol had no way of knowing if that was true.

Maybe Andrea didn't remember the nightmares. Or maybe she just didn't want to tell them to Michonne. Maybe they were each retaining some small part of themselves that they weren't sharing with each other. And, maybe, one day they'd share that part too.

Carol knew, too, that Glenn and Maggie spent much of their evenings discussing whether or not they were hoping to have something that looked like an official wedding, or if they were just going to consider themselves married and call it a day. She knew that they chatted, sometimes, about whether or not they might consider having children—at least at some point—if the prison proved to be the safe haven that they hoped it would be.

She knew that Tyreese was feeling particularly friendly toward Karen, and she knew—from the horse's mouth no less—that Karen was considering it, but she was honestly nervous of the idea of a relationship in this world. After all, they'd all lost so much already, was the risk of losing that worth the comfort that it might bring before the inevitable fall happened?

Carol had assured her that, though she couldn't speak for anyone else, she thought it was more than worth it.

A moment of happiness, even, was worth more than anything else. And, at least, if that happiness was gone? Ripped away somehow? You were left to live with the memory of the happiness instead of with the regret of happiness that might have been.

Sophia had been Carol's greatest happiness. And though she'd lost her? She knew that she'd rather live the rest of her life with the pain of having lost her daughter than to never have had the time that she had with her little girl.

She assumed, honestly, that all great losses worked the same way, even if she didn't have the same experience with Ed.

Carol loved Daryl, though, and she understood that one day, one of them would be without the other. Who would go first, honestly, was anyone's guess. Carol knew that most probably thought it would be a given that it would be her, if one of them were to go, that would go first—but she wasn't so sure. She certainly didn't want to lose Daryl, and she'd rather go first if she had the choice, but she'd also started to consider the fact that—for whatever reason—she kept surviving every time that she thought there wasn't a chance.

So, even if it seemed obvious? She assumed there was at least a chance that she could outlive Daryl. And if she did? She'd rather be left with his memory than with the regret of having never known him as she did now—as she did more with each passing day.

She thought, too, though they'd never actually discussed it, that Daryl probably felt the same way.

Carol left Beth outside with Judith, both getting some sun since it was such a nice day outside, and she wandered through the prison with the mail box that she used to gather up laundry that people left lying in their cell floors instead of actually getting all the way to the big pile that she "worked from" whenever she dived in to get some washed.

Everyone was busy. Tyreese was busy enlisting Rick's help to figure out how to get the showers running—proclaiming that he knew about the construction of these prisons and their backup systems that he could get running water for them. Maggie and Glenn were gone on a basic supply run. Daryl was busy, with Michonne, putting into place some of the plans they had for reinforcing the prison fences against Walkers since a previous run had brought them in a handful of animals—whose numbers they hoped to increase—and the smell and noise was attracting unwanted attention.

Carol was organizing everyone else to take care of the regular day in and day out activities that had to take place around the "special" projects. Animals had to be watered and fed. Pens had to be cleaned and manure gathered for when they started to plant. Food had to be cooked. Clothes had to be washed. These things, though not as exciting as some of the other things, were things that couldn't be ignored.

So Carol thought that the prison was empty when she wandered through it. While gathering clothes out of Glenn and Maggie's cell, though, she heard words echoing about and she stepped into the corridor a moment to identify where they were coming for before she focused on listening enough to know whether or not they were directed at her or if she might be able to help whoever was speaking with whatever problem they might have.

Her attention was even more so piqued when she heard her name.

Whoever was speaking, their voices were coming out as barley mumbles. They were aware of the echoing properties of the prison. They were trying not to be overheard.

So Carol decided to do them the favor of giving them the privacy they sought, turning back toward the cell to get her box, until she heard her name mentioned once more.

If they were going to whisper, and if they wanted privacy, then they probably shouldn't name drop.

A few steps down the corridor, though, and the voices were clearer to Carol's ears. Hershel was talking to Mary Wilkes. The woman had come with Tyreese's group, and whether it was age or simply having a good deal in common, she'd become quite the companion of Hershel.

Carol imagined that there might be more there—but so far the walls weren't speaking about that.

Or—maybe the walls were just whispering about it and she hadn't heard it yet.

Once she identified who was speaking, she stepped a little closer and listened for a moment, determined only to find out that the mentions of her name had nothing to do with something that she'd done poorly or failed to do altogether. From time to time she managed to forget some chore or another. After all, she had a longer daily list than most people and some things slipped her mind while taking care of other things.

She would have hated, though, to let Hershel and Mary down—she hated to let anyone down.

"...say something soon..." Mary said, when Carol could hear her.

"It just hasn't seemed like the right time," Hershel said.

"Some time has to be the right time," Mary said. "You don't keep those kinds of suspicions to yourself. Things'll need to be changed around here if it's the case."

Whatever they were discussing, Hershel's voice sounded troubled and it was clear that Mary was trying to sway him—one way or another.

Now Carol was listening simply because she was curious and hearing this was far more interesting than washing out dirty underwear yet again—the laundry could wait a moment. Besides, she wasn't going to tell anyone. She'd heard enough secrets that she hadn't told to know that she was trustworthy—and everyone else? If they knew all that she'd heard? Would realize how trustworthy she could be as well.

Besides, it was exciting to be a spy—even if it was of fairly trivial information.

"...new at this. Just getting started," Hershel said. "It's something so big...might be too much."

"Eventually it will be too much," Mary said. "Especially if it's a surprise to both of them. It's not a secret that'll keep. One way or another? Babies make themselves known, Hershel. Even if you don't."

Carol's stomach dropped. It felt like it fell somewhere about her feet on the floor. She swallowed back what rose up in her throat and reached for the cool concrete wall near her, resting her palm on it.

It had been her secret. Or at least she'd thought it was her secret.

It appeared, though, that she definitely wasn't the only one in the prison who was the keeper of other people's secrets.

Carol covered her mouth with her hand, fighting back the feelings of panic that had made her keep the secret as long as she had. She backed her way toward the cell where she'd left her laundry box and sunk down for a moment to sit on the bunk there. She focused on her breathing for a moment.

She'd suspected it for just a little while. There weren't that many signs—at least not that had gotten her attention, but there was enough that she'd found herself thinking about it—worrying about it might be more accurate—a little more each day.

Because if she was right? She wasn't going to be keeping it a secret for too much longer.

Apparently it already failed to be a secret. Hershel was on to her. And now? Now Mary was on to her too. Before long? The whole prison would know.

When Carol heard the sound of Hershel and Mary making their way down the corridor, she sunk back into the cot slightly and waited until they passed. They were still whispering between them—about her no less—and Hershel's words sealed his intention to say something to her soon.

When the two had passed by, Carol sat straight up again and took a moment to clear her head.

Hershel would talk to her soon. She'd discuss it all in detail with him. They'd come up with a plan—whatever kind of plan existed for these things these days beyond the waiting that simply had to happen. And then?

Then they would simply wait and hope, even if Carol wasn't sure what they were hoping for. They were hoping for the best, maybe. That's about what they had to hope for every day these days.

But—before Hershel found her and wanted to talk to her? She had to do some talking of her own.

She hoped Michonne wouldn't mind if she had to borrow Daryl for just a bit.

After all, even if he didn't know it? It was his secret too.


	26. Chapter 26

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"So how—how much?" Daryl asked.

Carol shifted her weight in the confined space. She hadn't really meant to drag Daryl into the little area that they called a tool shed. It had just sort of happened. She'd been looking for somewhere "private" for them to chat for just a moment, and it was the first place that had come into sight.

"How worried or how pregnant?" Carol asked. "Because—I'm really worried and I only know one way to be pregnant."

He sucked his teeth. She could hear him, but she could only see him with what light the cracks in the wooden sides of the small area allowed through.

"How sure?" Daryl asked. "You said you ain't sure. How sure are you?"

Carol swallowed.

"Well—I haven't had a period," she said.

"How long?" Daryl asked.

"I don't remember," Carol admitted. "At least—since Hershel's farm."

Daryl hummed.

"What else you got?" He asked.

"I've put on some weight?" Carol said.

"You askin' or you tellin'?" Daryl asked.

"And I feel—I really feel like I could throw up right now," Carol declared.

Daryl was quiet for a moment and then he hummed again.

"I don't got a period," he said. "Put on weight—everybody has. We're eating more here than when we were on the road. And—I kinda feel like I could ralph. Right now we three for three. What else you got?"

Carol sighed.

"I heard Hershel talking about it," Carol said. "He told Mary that he was going to say something to me. He said he—I don't know, Daryl. He suspected it and he was going to say something to me. If he's suspecting it, and I'm worried about it..."

Silence again. Then an exasperated growl of sorts from Daryl as he moved as much as he could in the confined space.

"Fuck," he muttered. Before Carol could say anything to him about his reaction, the door to the shed opened and he stepped out. He reached back, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her out after him. He took a deep breath and Carol realized she did the same. It was a small place. It was hot and confined and even if she was more worried about other things, her claustrophobia was kicking in—though it would've been worse had Daryl not been there and had she not been sure there was an immediate exit if she needed it. "Fuck this," Daryl said.

"I'm sorry," Carol said.

"Should be," Daryl muttered. "I ain't hiding in some damn hot closet—ready to puke on damn shovels and rakes. What the hell business is it of anyone else anyway?"

Carol was surprised. But then, she felt like Daryl had been surprising her a lot lately. His biggest concern at the moment wasn't the fact that she told him that she thought she might be pregnant, it was that she'd pulled him into a shed to talk about it.

"You're not mad?" Carol asked.

Daryl studied the ground a moment and then went about finding himself a cigarette. He lit it and stood there, smoking and contemplating his own thoughts, while Carol stared at him.

"You're pregnant—then you're pregnant," Daryl said.

"That wasn't really how you felt about Lori," Carol pointed out.

Daryl stared at her.

"Weren't my kid," Daryl said. "And—Lori got pregnant and created a whole world of shit with it. You're pregnant? What's it mean to anybody else? Not a damn thing. I ain't gonna lose my mind—ain't fightin' with nobody. Just—not nobody's problem."

Carol nodded at him.

"I—Daryl, I have to admit that I thought you'd be upset. It means—a strain on everyone else. More food, more—everything. Another mouth to feed," Carol said.

Daryl shrugged.

"We're gonna grow food," he said. "I don't guess it's gonna be that serious."

"If we're on the road," Carol said. She stopped, though, and simply shook her head. "After what happened?"

She didn't have to say much more. Daryl's eyes were glued to hers and then he dropped his head to study the ground again. He shook his head at her.

"I can't promise shit that's outta my control," he mumbled.

"I know," Carol said. "I really wasn't asking you to."

"We'll do what the hell we can," he said.

He looked at her again, held her eyes for a moment, and then nodded his head like he was fully satisfied with his own statement.

They'd do what they had to do.

Then he hummed and scratched at his head with the hand not holding the cigarette.

"So—you're sure?" He asked.

Carol sighed and crossed her arms tight across her chest, essentially hugging herself. Every time she thought it about it, anxiety surged up inside of her. It could be a wonderful thing—if everything went perfectly and the whole thing was picturesque, but it could also be the worst thing that ever happened to them—to her and Daryl both.

It was hard to tell which way the coin would land and Carol was nauseous just thinking about it.

"No," she said. "No—I'm not sure. I mean—I think. And Hershel thinks. But I'm not sure."

Daryl swallowed visibly, still staring at her.

"So? Go—get sure. You got a test or—what do you do?" Daryl asked.

Carol shrugged.

"I don't know," she said. "I don't have pregnancy tests. I didn't think I'd need them. But—Hershel might."

Daryl hummed.

"Go take one?" He asked. "Just—uh—just find out? Lemme know...or..."

Carol could tell he didn't know what the protocol for this was. Honestly? She didn't know what the protocol for end of the world pregnancy was either. She hadn't exactly had a great deal of practice with this and it was a lot different back when she'd gotten pregnant with Sophia.

"Yeah," Carol said finally. "Yeah—I'll go find Hershel. I'll—take a test. Talk to him? Then I'll find you?"

Daryl chuckled to himself.

"Yeah," he said. "You'll know where the hell I am."

Carol nodded.

Daryl stood there, somewhat awkwardly, looking at her for a moment and she smiled to herself.

"You still want a kiss?" She asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

He smirked just a little.

"Even if I'm pregnant?" She asked.

"Hell—I know Rick and Lori didn't do it," he said. "But—I didn't think it was bad for babies."

Carol smiled at his teasing. It helped, honestly, with the anxiety. So she paid him back with the best kiss that she could give him—and she didn't point out, as he turned and headed back toward where she'd found him, that it would've been nice if he'd come with her. There was no need, after all, to push things just yet.

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Hershel hadn't said a single word with his mouth when Carol had shown up and asked him if he had pregnancy tests. He'd rummaged around in the small store room where they kept extra things, found a bag that had come from one of Glenn's runs with assorted "anything women might use" products, and came out with a box of them. He'd offered Carol one. His eyes might have had a little bit to say—but his mouth didn't join in.

And he didn't say anything, either, when Carol returned with it in her hand and stood there looking to him for some kind of support while she waited.

He just patted the wooden chair beside the one he was sitting in—one usually reserved for Mary—and Carol sat.

She felt like she was waiting for two or three hours. In a prison that was usually filled with sounds of all kinds, she felt like there was nothing around her but absolute silence. The only sound, actually, that she could hear beyond her own pulse in her ears was the sound of Hershel drumming out a light rhythm on his chair with his fingers.

She broke the silence finally.

"I talked to Daryl," she said. "He knows. Well—he knows that I was coming to take the test. He's waiting for the results while he works. It's better for him to work—so he doesn't overthink it."

Hershel chuckled to himself.

"You want me to read it for you?" He asked.

"Is it time?" Carol asked.

He hummed.

"I believe it's been about long enough," he said. "That's the thing. Since I gave Glenn my watch? I have no idea what time it is anymore. It's better, though. I used to be a slave to time. Now—it doesn't matter all that much anymore. Seasons will change—and if we're lucky enough to be here to watch them? We'll know when they do. There's something freeing, though, about not watching the minutes and days tick by like we used to."

Carol swallowed hard.

"If I'm pregnant?" She said. "Then—I feel like I'm going to be a lot, _lot_ more aware of the time."

Hershel reached for test.

"You might be," he said. "But—either way? We'll be able to tell well enough how the time is passing, even without a watch. And even without being really sure where we're starting the marking of the months."

He studied the test in his hand. He hummed.

"Well?" Carol asked.

"Carol—how..." Hershel looked at her and stopped. He was staring at her. He was struggling to ask her something, or to say what he was going to say.

"Sophia was born naturally," Carol said. "I probably won't need a c-section, but if I do? I trust you. And—someone else can learn how to do it just in case. Like I did for Lori. We'll just—hope nothing happens."

Hershel furrowed his brow.

"That's good to know," he commented. "But..."

He shook his head and sighed.

"Carol, I hope you weren't too attached to this idea," he said. "Because there's no baby."

He shook his head again.

"I haven't had a period," Carol said, but she had nothing else to really follow it up with and she wasn't even sure that classified anymore as anything important at all.

Hershel shook his head again.

"Hardly anyone has," he said. "Poor nutrition, stress...there's the possibility, perhaps, of menopause? There are a lot of reasons for that. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your feelings—it's not a baby. I'm sorry, Carol."

Carol sat there for a moment and took in what he was saying. Then she nodded her head and forced a smile.

"No," she said. "No—that's great, right? That's a relief. I—need to tell Daryl."

She hadn't prepared for the feeling that she had right this moment. In the shed? Talking to Daryl? She'd thought the best thing that she could hear, for the both of them, would be that there was no baby. Her anxiety had told her that it was exactly what she wanted to hear. But right now? After hearing what she most wanted to hear? She had a strange sort of sinking feeling wash over her.

But it was silly, and it would pass.

Carol got up from her chair, wearing the smile she'd pasted on, and accepted the negative test from Hershel. She glanced at it, easily enough confirmed what he'd said, and threw it away in the trash can in the room that she'd empty later. She thanked him for his "help," mostly meaning his staying with her, and then she started to excuse herself from the cell to go after Daryl.

"Carol?" Hershel called when she was leaving. She stopped.

She hoped he wasn't going to press her to talk about how she was feeling—not just at the moment, since she really didn't have an answer—but she hummed and turned back.

"What—made you think you were pregnant?" Hershel asked. "At the moment?"

Carol sighed.

"Oh," she said. "I heard you and Mary talking about me. I heard you say that you were—you were going to talk to me. I'd just been worrying about it, I guess. I thought I'd go ahead and save you having to talk to me."

Hershel nodded.

"Well, I guess you don't have to worry about it," he said. "But—I wasn't talking to Mary about you."

"I heard my name," Carol said.

Hershel nodded again.

"I mentioned your name," Hershel said, "because I thought you might be the best one to talk to Andrea."

Carol felt her heart do a jump like it had done earlier—when she'd thought that Hershel and Mary were talking about her.

She shook her head.

"Andrea's not..." she started, but she stopped. She had no fact to put behind the statement at all.

"I suspected it when she came in," Hershel said. "But—I couldn't tell and her other injuries were too serious to be concerned with it."

He sighed.

"But—I've been...sort of...keeping a check on it? And—I think she is," Hershel said. "But I don't think she knows. And I don't know how she'll handle it. I don't know how Michonne will handle it. And I know that's important to how Andrea handles it. I just told Mary that I thought that—knowing you're close to the both of them—you might want to be the one to say something?"

Carol suddenly felt like she couldn't breathe again, and at the moment? The thing she wanted most in the world was to escape the cell so that she could get outside—where there was more oxygen for the taking.

She nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "Of—of course. I'll talk to her. Right after I talk to Daryl."

Hershel thanked her and Carol left the cell, all the while wondering why she'd promised to do such a thing and hoping that the walk she'd take to talk to Daryl would somehow help her figure out what to say.

Because, at the moment, she didn't have any idea what words she might use for something like this.

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 **AN: So to my anon prompter for the story, as you can see, we're finally getting into the territory of your prompt now that the groundwork is laid. I hope you'll enjoy it.**


	27. Chapter 27

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **We'll get there, but there are a lot of things that will have to go on here. It's not a super quick fix here. Lots more to come.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol wasn't trying to put words behind the expression on Andrea's face at the moment. She couldn't even begin to put herself in the position that Andrea was in at the moment, and she wasn't going to push Andrea to say or do anything until she was ready.

Daryl had taken the news of "no baby" well. He had no reason, after all, not to take it well. He'd found out about the possible baby and found out didn't exist within a matter of an hour or so. He hadn't had much time to become attached to the idea. And Carol, as of yet, hadn't bothered to tell him about her conflicted feelings because she didn't understand them herself.

There would be time for that. For the moment? She was trying to figure out how to get Andrea through this.

She'd, perhaps, gone about it entirely the wrong way. She thought that now, at least, but she hadn't known what else to do. There wasn't a handbook for this sort of thing.

She'd taken a couple of tests from Hershel, called Andrea over to her, and told her that she wanted to talk to her about something. Then? She'd simply presented that maybe it was a possibility. Maybe it was something that—just to be sure, or just to know—Andrea might want to consider testing for.

Every ounce of color had drained from the woman's face at just the suggestion, but she'd done her best to play it off as something amusing—something she was doing to humor Carol. Carol had accompanied her, and she'd gone to take the tests—tests that were a little secret between just the two of them.

Now they were sitting, side by side, on the bunk in Andrea and Michonne's cell while Andrea alternated between staring at the two positive tests in her hand and at Carol.

She hadn't spoken yet. She hadn't cried. She hadn't screamed. She'd had no reaction at all except the stark lack of a reaction—which may very well have been a reaction in itself.

Carol sat in silence with her for a few moments, but then she started to fear that Andrea might have very well slipped into something like shock.

"Do you—want to talk about it?" Carol asked, feeling immediately like it was a weak thing to say to the woman. She shook her head as a way of trying to excuse herself for not knowing what to say or what to do. "You don't have to," she added. "But if you want to?"

Andrea put the tests on the small table by the bed, her expression still remaining the same, and then she studied the floor for a moment before she looked at Carol.

Carol almost wished for the screaming and crying she'd tried to prepare herself for. It might be preferable to the silent look of shock on Andrea's face at the moment.

Carol sighed.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" She asked. "Or—get Michonne?"

Andrea shook her head.

"No," she said, the first word that she'd actually uttered since the "OK" that had been stammered out in regard to taking the tests. "I can't—talk to Michonne right now."

Carol took the sign of "melting" from Andrea as a sign she might be coming around and she reached and took her hand. She still felt no more prepared than she had been before, but she had to say or do something.

"Hershel—he was great taking care of Lori," Carol said.

Immediately she understood the expression that Andrea gave her.

"Lori's dead," Andrea offered quietly.

"That wasn't Hershel's fault," Carol said. "He was prepared to handle a C-section. I worked with him. I learned how to do it if he couldn't. What happened that day? Andrea—there's no reason to think it would happen again. It was just—just one of those things."

Andrea nodded her head at Carol, but it seemed more like she was trying to agree with her enough to get her to stop talking about it.

Carol swallowed.

She took a chance—not that she could understand exactly what Andrea was feeling, but that she might be able to relate some—and spoke again after a moment.

"I know that he's not the father you would want," Carol said. "But—you have to focus on the baby. Not on him."

Andrea looked at her and Carol shook her head.

"When I was pregnant with Sophia?" Carol offered. "I was—terrified. Things were already bad with Ed. They'd been bad for a while. And Ed? He wanted a baby. He wanted a son. So I thought—you know? I thought it might make things better. But I was still terrified. And in the beginning? It did. It made things a lot better. While I was pregnant? Ed didn't lay a hand on me. He wasn't really supportive, but he wasn't going to do anything at all to hurt his son."

Carol shook her head, remembering it all in her mind as it played out like a movie there. She remembered so much from that time—even when there were other things that she couldn't recall at all about those years. Anything related to Sophia, though? From the time she knew she was pregnant until...Carol remembered it all.

"When I—uh—when I found out? That Sophia wasn't going to be Ed Jr.? I didn't tell him. I just—didn't say anything. I didn't want to risk him getting angry. Because I loved Sophia already. Boy or girl. It didn't matter. I loved her. And I was going to do whatever—whatever—I had to do for her. I was afraid, too. For a long time? I worried that my baby—my precious little baby—would be like Ed. I didn't know what made him so hateful sometimes, but I worried that it was something my baby was going to get," Carol said.

She stopped speaking a moment, but she had Andrea's undivided attention. She was staring at her like she was watching a movie that she was involved in—like she was waiting to see how the story ended.

So Carol kept talking.

"I worried that my baby—especially Ed Jr.—would turn out just like Ed. But Sophia? From the beginning she wasn't anything like Ed. She was so—so perfect. Still...that whole marriage? The only good thing that really came out of all those years with Ed was Sophia. And for that? I have to thank Ed. He didn't mean to, but he gave me the most wonderful gift that he could ever give me. He made me Sophia's Mommy, and it was the most—the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me..."

Carol stopped talking because, suddenly, she couldn't talk anymore. She choked on her words. She choked on the feelings behind them. She wasn't capable of continuing.

She could settle for nothing more than shaking her head at Andrea.

And it helped when Andrea moved, slid closer to Carol, and wrapped her arms around her to pull her tight against her. She put her hand gently on the back of Carol's head and pushed her deeper into the hug, her hand trailing over Carol's back.

After a moment, Carol was able to laugh to herself with the irony, and she pulled out of the hug whispering a chain of thanks to Andrea.

She wiped at her face and smiled at the concerned look on Andrea's face.

"I'm supposed to be comforting you," Carol said.

Andrea's expression changed slightly and then she nodded.

"Yeah," she said, even if the word was hollow and had no meaning—it was little more than a place filler for the moment. She sucked in a breath, and then she spoke with a little more conviction. "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to think."

"You don't have to say anything," Carol said. "And—I can't tell you what to think."

Andrea's face screwed up with emotion then. It was the first sign of genuine emotion so Carol wasn't going to suggest to her that she shouldn't cry. If crying was what she wanted to do? Then crying was what she should do.

"Part of me," Andrea stammered after a moment, "just wants—I just want it out of my body. I don't want—him. I don't want—anything—of him anymore. Everywhere—I see him. I—hear him. I close my eyes—and he's there. And now? He's _inside_ of _me_. And I just—want him out of my body."

Carol took the opportunity to be the one to be the hugger this time. She held Andrea and comforted her, mirroring the actions that Andrea had done for her earlier, as best she could.

"It's not him," Carol said. "OK? He was part of it—and I know that's terrible. But it's not him. Sophia wasn't Ed. He—was part of her, but she wasn't Ed. And this baby? It's not him. It's—this baby is just as much Andrea as it is him. This baby? Will never even know him. It doesn't have to know anything about him. It's just your baby. Just—Andrea's baby. He's not here anymore."

Carol continued to whisper anything that she could think of to be comforting. She continued to mumble, over and over, any words that came to mind. But she never pulled out of the hug.

She stayed still until it was Andrea that pulled away, mopping at her face and shaking her head.

"It doesn't have to be like him, right?" Andrea said. "It doesn't—just like Sophia, right? Just—just like Sophia."

Carol nodded her agreement with the statement. Andrea seemed to be calming with the thought. And, honestly, Carol doubted that the baby—if it was genuinely going to survive—would ever know anything of its father.

Andrea fell quiet for a moment, but she was steadier and calmer than before.

"Did you ever want a baby?" Carol asked.

Andrea looked at her.

"It was never a good time," she said. Then she laughed, ironically, to herself. "It was never a good time. I had other things to do. I didn't have—everything that I needed. Now, though? I think now—apparently this is a _great_ time."

Carol laughed ironically to herself too. This wasn't a great time. For anyone who took family planning seriously, it was the worst possible time imaginable. However, things happened as they would happen.

"Still..." Andrea said. She let the word trail off until Carol physically nudged her to urge her to continue. "When Lori first found out? About Judith? I felt bad, you know? I mean I felt... _jealous_."

Andrea sniffed and shook her head, dismissing it, until Carol urged her to continue.

"You're going to think I'm horrible," Andrea declared.

"I don't," Carol said. "I don't—and I've thought plenty of things that were probably horrible."

Andrea sighed.

"I was jealous because...she had it all," Andrea said. "Or—I thought she did. She had Rick. She had Shane. She had both of them so—so crazy—over her that neither of them could see straight."

She shook her head again at her own thoughts, or her own memories, whichever might be the case.

"She had a husband. She had a son. She was pregnant. She was going to have—everything. And a boyfriend. She just had—everything came up perfect for Lori. Everyone else...we were all losing everything we had. But Lori? It just kept _getting better_ for her," Andrea said.

Carol hummed at her.

"You have Michonne," Carol offered quietly. "I—it looks to me like she loves you. Like she loves you—every bit as much as Rick and Shane—put together—loved Lori. And you have her. And—now? You're going to have a baby."

She laughed to herself.

"And just like Lori? You had the whole crazy boyfriend experience," Carol said.

Andrea looked at her and Carol frowned.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I meant it as a joke—but it shouldn't have said that."

To her surprise, Andrea laughed then.

"It's OK," she said, when she got the laughter under control. "Really—it's OK. It's true. I did have the crazy boyfriend. And—oh God. Carol—Michonne's going to kill me. She's not—she hates him."

Carol sighed.

"She hates him," Carol said. "But she doesn't hate you, OK? Remember that. She hates him mostly for what he did to you. She doesn't hate you. And—eventually? She's going to be..."

She stopped, not sure she could really continue.

"She's going to come around about the baby," Carol said, not sure if her words really came out as a declarative sentence.

Andrea swallowed and shook her head.

"I'm not really sure I'm coming around," she said, suddenly sounding a little like she had in the beginning. "Carol—I don't think I feel—alright."

Carol nodded.

"You want to throw up?" She offered.

Andrea shook her head.

"I think—maybe you should talk to Hershel? When you feel like it? Maybe you should lie down? Try to—to close your eyes a few minutes?" Carol offered.

Andrea's face screwed up again.

"I don't know how to tell Michonne," Andrea said.

Carol closed her eyes a moment, had a quick discussion with herself, and then opened her eyes to Andrea again.

"I think—you need a minute? To just let it sink in? Maybe?" Carol said. She swallowed. "I'll talk to Michonne. You rest, just a little while. And I'll talk to Michonne."


	28. Chapter 28

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne shuffled her way through the prison to the cell that Hershel had, more or less, set up as something of an office in the prison. She felt like her body was numb. She almost felt like her mind was numb.

Nobody had spoken to her since she'd finished listening to Carol in the yard—listening to her because she didn't know what to say and she didn't know if there was anything to say. She'd walked around—meaning to think but not really doing a great job of it—and then she'd made her way to find Hershel.

She found him easily enough. He looked at her when she shuffled in and, in silence, Mary got up and excused herself from the space. Hershel waited a moment and then he hummed at Michonne as a way of inviting her to speak and breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

"Have you seen her?" Michonne asked. "Since..."

She didn't finish. Hershel hummed again and nodded his head.

"I would ask you who," he responded, "but I think I've got a pretty good idea. I went in and checked on her. I had a good look at her."

Michonne nodded enough to show that she was hearing his words. At least, she was hearing them as well as she'd heard anything that Carol had said, her head still felt full of fog.

"She's fine," Hershel said. "Healthy, I mean. There's nothing that I'm too concerned about. She's healthier than Lori was when we first found out about Judith."

Michonne stood there, trying to focus on anything beyond the headache that was threatening to come upon her. Finally, she swallowed against her dry throat and spoke to Hershel.

"What can you do for it?" Michonne asked.

Hershel hummed.

"I was a vet," he said. "So it's not my area of specialty. But—I can do the basics. Keep a check on her. Make sure things are developing well. It's her first baby, so we don't have much to go on as to how she'll handle carrying it or handle delivery, but I'll watch her as closely as I can. I'm not anticipating too many problems."

Michonne shook her head at him.

"No," she said. "No. What can you do for it?"

Hershel stared at her now and Michonne sighed.

"Is there something she can take? Something you can—you can do?" Michonne asked.

He continued to stare at her.

"Hershel, she can't have his baby," Michonne said. "It's dangerous...this isn't the world for that. And—she's not going to want to have his baby. What can you do for it? For her?"

Hershel stared at her a moment longer before he finally spoke.

"What I can do for both of you is forget that you came to me to ask me that, Michonne," Hershel said. "On moral grounds, I wouldn't do a thing. But—my beliefs aside? My abilities wouldn't allow it. Not without causing even more trauma to Andrea. Physically and mentally. Right now? What she needs from me is medical care. She needs—good nutrition. She needs the vitamins that I gave her. She needs enough food that her body isn't straining to make do and she needs enough rest so that her body can keep her healing and keep growing the child that it's going to consider a main priority. She needs you. And she needs you—she needs you to be supportive. That's what she needs."

He shuffled over to his chair and settled down in it, pulling his crutch near him as something lean on.

"For my part? I can offer her what she needs that I have to give," Hershel said. "If you love her? You'll do the best you can to offer her what she needs from you."

Michonne crossed her arms across her chest to hug herself more than anything. She wouldn't let him know, though, how she was feeling. In all honesty? She wasn't even sure how she was feeling. She simply knew that it wasn't a positive feeling.

"That man is a psychopath," Michonne said.

Hershel nodded.

"He's still out there," Michonne said. "He's coming back. He'll try to kill her. He'll try to kill all of us."

"Nothing has changed there," Hershel offered.

"He's crazy," Michonne said. "He's a sociopath. And she's—that's his baby."

Hershel nodded and hummed.

"I see your point," he said. "I guess it's probably better if we don't ask him if he'd want to raise it."

Michonne felt a catch over his tone more than anything. The way he was looking at her, she almost felt like a child standing in front of her father—stern faced and waiting for her to come around—and she didn't know how to respond to him.

"Michonne," Hershel said, "the child that Andrea's carrying is just that. A child. A blank slate. If you choose to, you can help to raise that child however you see fit. It's a decision that you have to make. A decision that you need to make with its mother. It's father? Whatever he is or wherever he is? He's of no concern to us until we even have proof that he's alive."

Michonne swallowed.

"And if he is alive?" Michonne asked.

Hershel waited a moment and then sucked in a deep breath.

"The last accounts I had," Hershel said, "you had intentions to kill the man. Am I right?"

Michonne didn't respond, neither verbally nor physically. Hershel took that as his response, though, because he nodded his head at her.

"Then he'll be of even less concern," Hershel said, matter of factly.

"We don't even know what he did to her," Michonne said. "I don't know—what he did to her. Not beyond what she said to me. Not beyond the wounds that haven't even fully healed and the—scars that they've left behind. I know that she doesn't sleep well. I know that—she's terrified by things that never scared her before. He did that to her."

Hershel nodded his head slightly, but he offered no verbal response.

"She can't have his baby," Michonne said.

Hershel hummed again. With his next line, it became blatantly clear that he'd spoken to Carol, or she'd spoken to him, and they were forming a united front of sorts on their perspective about the baby in question.

"Then she won't," Hershel said. "She'll have her child. And that child will be raised by her and as hers."

Michonne swallowed.

"Physically—can she have this baby?" Michonne asked.

"Nothing is guaranteed," Hershel said.

"I know that," Michonne responded.

 _She knew that well._

"I don't see any reason to be concerned," Hershel said. "We'll make sure that she doesn't do any activities that should be too much for her. We'll make sure she eats the best that she can. That she gets enough."

"What about the burn?" Michonne asked. "It's not healed. And it's—in a bad place."

"It's healing," Hershel said. "It's almost healed. It looks good. And there shouldn't be any problem with it."

"I haven't seen her yet," Michonne said. "How is she—mentally?"

Hershel offered her a quick glimpse of a smile. It was gone as soon as it appeared.

"She's—as good as can be expected," Hershel said. "But—a lot of that's going to depend on you. You need to decide if it's a role you're willing to take. If you aren't? Then the rest of us will do what we can. But—you should decide. She needs some stability. Someone she can count on."

Michonne almost laughed ironically to herself. She seldom felt, these days, that she was anyone that should ever be used in any way with the concept of stability.

She nodded her head, though, and turned to take her leave of Hershel.

"Can you offer that?" He asked, a little louder than he'd spoken before to make sure that she heard him.

Michonne turned back to look at the man and waited before she responded.

"I can try," she said.

It was the best that she had at the moment. Nothing, after all, was guaranteed.

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When Michonne stepped into the doorway of the cell and pushed the blanket out of the way—clearly the doing of Carol to provide more privacy to the space—she found Andrea inside. The woman was sitting on the cot, staring off into space at the brick wall opposite her, her back against the wall the cot sat against.

Andrea looked at her when she came in and a look of sheer terror crossed her face.

For a moment? Andrea looked every bit as afraid of Michonne as she'd ever seen her look at the phantom spottings of the Governor or "reminders" of the man. It made Michonne's heart skip—and not at all in a positive manner.

"Oh—Mich..." Andrea said.

Michonne held up her hand to stop Andrea continuing, feeling a string of apologies coming.

"Don't say you're sorry," Michonne said, shaking her head. "Just—don't. I talked to Hershel."

She sighed, but she did walk over and sit on the bed. She didn't miss that Andrea, when shifting her weight, chose to shift it so that she moved a little farther away from Michonne rather than closer to her. Michonne didn't point it out at the moment.

"He said that—you'll have to carry it. However long. He won't do anything," Michonne said.

Andrea was quiet.

"What was he going to do?" Andrea asked.

Michonne shook her head.

"He's not going to do anything," Michonne said. "But—I asked him about—what he could do. To handle things."

When Andrea didn't say anything, Michonne finally looked at her. She wasn't sure what the expression Andrea was wearing meant.

"You asked Hershel if he would—do something?" Andrea asked.

"Something for you," Michonne said.

"You asked Hershel if he would—do something—to me? For me?" Andrea asked.

Andrea was clearly upset. It had been too much for one day and the day wasn't even over yet.

"I thought that you..." Michonne paused. "I thought you wouldn't want this."

Andrea stared off into space for a moment and then she nodded her head slowly.

"Whether or not I want this," Andrea said, "that's my decision to make. It's my—decision—if I ask Hershel to do something about this or not, Mich. That's—that's for me to say. That's for me to ask. For me to decide."

"I understand," Michonne said quickly and loudly enough to stop the string of words falling out of Andrea's mouth. "It doesn't matter. Hershel said he won't do anything anyway."

"You were going to just—to make that decision _for_ me?" Andrea asked.

Michonne swallowed.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Michonne said. "I didn't. I know that this is a lot for you. This isn't easy for you. It isn't easy for me. I thought that—it might be best to know your options."

"You were going to make that decision for me," Andrea repeated.

"I know you're probably—I don't know what you're thinking," Michonne said.

Andrea looked at her, anger flashing in her eyes. Then she shook her head.

"That's right, Michonne. You don't know what I'm thinking. You didn't come—you didn't ask me what I was thinking. You—just decided—for me—that you'd ask Hershel what he could do. You didn't ask me what I was thinking. You went on what you were thinking."

Michonne felt properly scolded. But maybe she deserved it.

If it had been her? She would've been furious to think that someone had tried to speak for her. She'd have been furious that someone was making decisions for her.

But she was used to making decisions for Andrea—she'd tried to do it all along. She knew it, even if it was only really coming to her attention.

"It wasn't my decision to make," Michonne said. "It's your body. It's your—it's yours. It's your decision to make."

She cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry," she added.

Andrea audibly swallowed. She was staring once again at the wall as though it was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen and not like it was a wall made out of concrete.

"Andrea?" Michonne asked, softening her voice on purpose. She had to repeat Andrea's name twice more to get her to actually turn and look at her, her eyes glittering more than they normally did in the dim light thanks to the lubrication of some tears that she was holding back. "What _do_ you think?" Michonne asked.


	29. Chapter 29

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Andrea took her time responding to Michonne's question because, in reality, she wasn't sure what she felt—she'd only just stopped feeling numb.

"I feel like—if Hershel were willing to do anything? Like that? He would've mentioned it instead of—letting me know that I was healthy. That I was healthy enough to—to make it through this. He would've said something besides—that he thought I should rest because..."

She broke off and laughed to herself.

"Because my pulse was elevated. And my blood pressure was high. And relaxing? It might make things a little better," Andrea said.

Michonne was looking at her now, her brows slightly furrowed. She looked concerned, but Andrea had no idea if she was concerned about her or simply concerned that now there was to be a baby that she didn't want—and she didn't have to even pretend that she did want it, her feelings were clear on the matter.

Andrea swallowed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't mean to get pregnant. I never would've meant for that to happen. Not now. Not in this world. Not with things the way that they are."

"It's not guaranteed," Michonne said.

Andrea laughed to herself.

All of these things, maybe, were thoughts to make her feel better, but they didn't. Not really.

It boiled down to the fact that she was pregnant. Whether she meant to be or not, she was pregnant. That was already done. Whether or not she would've chosen the Governor as the father of her baby—especially now that she knew him for what he really was and not the man that he'd presented himself to be when he was calm? It didn't matter. He wasn't the man she'd thought he was when she'd believed that he loved her—and it didn't matter. She was still pregnant, and he was definitely the father—because she doubted sincerely that she'd been chosen for some sort of end-of-the world, hell-on-Earth immaculate conception.

Since she was pregnant, and that fact couldn't be disputed, it left her with only a few possible outcomes. Namely, she could carry this baby to term—and deal with whatever consequences followed after that for the both of them, or she would lose the baby some time before that came to pass—and that didn't feel exactly like something she'd love either.

The baby was a baby.

Its father was a sociopath that wanted to kill everyone in his wake that didn't want to bow down to him at all times—but it was just a baby.

And she was its mother—whether or not she'd chosen the role.

"I don't know how I feel, Mich," Andrea said. "I don't know—how I'm supposed to feel."

She glanced at Michonne and Michonne moved from her spot sitting on the bed. At first, Andrea thought she was going to leave the cell. She assumed that her inability to feel—however it was that Michonne wanted her to feel without question—was going to be enough to have Michonne walking out of the cell and leaving her there to deal with this all alone. Michonne didn't leave, though. She simply went to her bag, burrowed through it, and came back holding out a handkerchief in Andrea's direction.

Andrea took it and thanked her, mopping at her face. She hadn't realized she was crying. It was happening, but it wasn't a conscious choice on her part at all.

"You tell me how you feel," Michonne said, sitting down again. "You tell me. Because—I'm not going to tell you how to feel."

"How do you feel?" Andrea asked.

Michonne was quiet.

"Do you hate me?" Andrea asked. "Now that—you know I'm pregnant?"

Michonne was quiet a moment and then she hummed.

"I've never hated you," Michonne said after a moment. "I don't think I can."

"You want to?" Andrea asked.

Michonne didn't respond.

Andrea shook her head at her.

"It doesn't matter," Andrea said. "You can hate me if you want. It was stupid. I was—stupid. We used condoms—but they were never guaranteed. Even less now."

Michonne closed her eyes and shook her head. Andrea bit her lip. Michonne didn't want to hear about that. She should've realized that Michonne didn't want to talk about that.

That would be one of the worst parts of this, probably, for Michonne. It was unquestionable proof of the things that had happened while Andrea was with the Governor.

She resisted the urge to try to talk her way out of the slip. Instead, she focused again on trying to say what it was she was feeling. She focused her attention on trying to figure that out for herself.

"I wanted a baby," Andrea said. "Not now—but I mean...I used to want one. Someday. That's what I always said. Someday I'd have a baby. Someday? I'd have this life—it would just be...perfect? A nice life, someone to love—a baby. Funny. It never looked like this."

Michonne pressed her fingers on either side of her nose. She sat there, quiet, her eyes closed, focusing on something that Andrea couldn't see or hear. Finally, she sighed.

"Looks like you've got a chance at having a baby now," Michonne said.

Andrea stared at her and nodded her head slightly. She didn't point out that Michonne had skipped entirely over the part where she'd wanted someone to share her life with—someone who loved her. She didn't know if it was intentional or not, but it certainly wasn't the time to be asking such questions.

"If— _if_...you and I—if we're staying together? If you're—staying with me?" Andrea said after a moment. "Mich—this is the only chance I've got, right? I mean—biologically we're not exactly set to have a baby at any time. This could be the only chance I've got."

"If we're staying together?" Michonne asked.

Andrea stared at her. She already regretted bringing up that line of thought—one of many that was circling through her mind—at the moment.

"If we're staying together?" Michonne repeated.

Andrea swallowed hard and shook her head.

"I don't know what you want to do," Andrea said.

"So you were thinking we'd just call this off now?" Michonne asked. "It's that disposable to you?"

Andrea shook her head.

"Maybe it is," Michonne said.

"Mich, that wasn't what I meant," Andrea said. "You know that. It wasn't what I meant. But—I know that you probably—you probably aren't happy with me right now. And I don't know how—I don't know if this might be something that makes you not want to be with me."

Michonne sighed and then she stood up. The cell allowed her little room for pacing, but she optimized the room that was available.

"What I know," Michonne said, "is that—you're pregnant. You're pregnant by—by a madman that wants me dead. He wants you dead. He would have done the job. He'd have killed you—except he didn't realize you were harder to kill than he thought."

She stopped in front of Andrea and squared off in front of her, her hands going to her hips.

"What I know," Michonne continued, "is that I love you. You, Andrea. OK? I know that. I knew that—I knew it for sure? When we opened that door and—I had to face, for a little while, the fact that I might never..."

She let her voice trail off. Andrea didn't press her. Finally, Michonne simply shook her head and took up her pacing again.

"Don't lie to me. And don't—tell me what you think I want to hear," Michonne said, not looking at Andrea. "Do you want this baby?"

"I'm scared of..." Andrea said, but she wasn't allowed to finish. Michonne interrupted her words.

"You're scared. I'm scared. You're scared. Everyone in the whole damn world is scared!" Michonne spat. "I asked you if you want this baby."

"I don't know," Andrea barked back. It was difficult to talk to someone who was demanding such a straightforward answer to what felt like a complicated question.

Michonne clearly wasn't going to let her go with that, though. She didn't say anything and she didn't do anything beyond continuing her pacing.

"I wish that the circumstances were different," Andrea said.

"But they're not," Michonne responded shortly.

Andrea sat there a moment. Finally, she sighed.

"Yes," she said. "If my options are—having a healthy baby and having a...not having a healthy baby? I want this baby to be healthy."

Michonne stopped pacing, but she didn't look at Andrea.

"It's not an answer," she said, her voice quieter than before. "It's not a real answer. But—it's probably the best answer that you've got right now."

"It is," Andrea said, barely feeling like she could speak at all.

Michonne sucked in a breath.

"That's it, then," Michonne said. "You've got to do what you need to do to have a healthy baby."

"Mich—what about the Governor?" Andrea asked. "If he comes back..."

"When he comes back," Michonne corrected.

"He kept a child in a closet," Michonne said. "He'll—either want to kill you for..."

She stopped and never finished speculating why he might want to kill Andrea—on top of all the other reasons he'd probably already decided that he wanted to kill her.

"Or he'll want you alive," Michonne said. "Because—he'll want the baby."

Michonne looked at Andrea then.

"Would you go back to him?" Michonne asked. "If he wanted you? If he—promised you that you'd be safe? That he'd—take care of you? Would you go back to him?"

Andrea knew that she looked at Michonne as though the woman had lost her mind, but she couldn't control her facial muscles at the moment. The very thought of it was something she couldn't even wrap her mind around.

"No," Andrea stammered out. "No—of course not. I'm not crazy!"

Michonne raised her eyebrows at her.

"Just checking," she said. "When he comes back? We'll be ready for him. It doesn't matter right now, anyway. He's not getting you. And he's not getting the baby."

"Michonne?" Andrea said. "Please—tell me what you're thinking?"

Michonne shook her head at her.

"You don't know what to think," Michonne said. "And neither do I."

"What does that mean?" Andrea asked.

"It's not a riddle," Michonne responded. "I don't know what I think. And you don't know what you think. But—we'll figure it out. That's what we're doing. We're figuring it out."

"Does this mean we're—doing this together?" Andrea asked.

Michonne looked uncomfortable. Her face screwed up in an odd sort of manner and she glanced around the cell, looking at the ceiling, for anything to rest her eyes on.

"I'm here," Michonne said. "And—I'm not going anywhere. Are you—running from me?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Andrea said.

"Then it looks like we're doing this together," Michonne said.

She held her hand up at Andrea like she was going to stop her from saying anything before she'd even decided what she might say.

"I'm not happy about this," Michonne said. "I'm not. And I might be later, but I might not. I'm just—right now? I'm just here."

Andrea nodded at her.

"That's all I can ask, right?" Andrea said. "I'm just here too, Mich. And—I'm not happy either. But—I want to be? I think—I need to be. At some point? Maybe I will. Maybe it just takes time. It'll just—take time, right?"

Michonne hummed.

"Yeah," she said. "It'll take time."

Andrea leaned back, relaxing with her back against the wall. She realized, in that instant, how very tense she'd actually become with the conversation.

Michonne looked at her.

"Rest," Michonne said. "I'm going to—take a walk. But—I'm coming back."

Andrea nodded at her, accepted that she simply needed some time to deal with this—something Andrea still felt she needed—and she watched as Michonne left the cell presumably to take a walk around the yard and clear her mind.


	30. Chapter 30

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Well, if you want me to understand it," Daryl said, "then you're gonna have to explain it because, right now? I don't get it all."

Carol sighed, the last part of it coming out in a light growl. It wasn't directed at Daryl and she was sure, by now, that he knew that. The growl was over the fact that Carol found her own irrational and inexplicable thoughts to be every bit as frustrating to her as they could possibly be to Daryl.

"I can't explain it. I don't even know if I really understand it," Carol said.

"You looked like you were ready to shit when you told me you were pregnant," Daryl said. "Like—like the best damn news ever was going to be that there wasn't a kid. But now..."

He let the words trail off without any effort to finish the thought. He didn't have to.

"I know," Carol said, "I guess it was just that...it was the being told that I might never be able to have a baby again that bothered me. Just like that—it's over, it's done...it's not even an option?"

Daryl stared at her a moment in the dim and dancing light of the small lamp that burned in the guard tower.

"You wanted it to be an option?" Daryl asked.

Carol could understand the expression on his face. It was ridiculous to think that anyone might want that option right now.

But feelings weren't always rational.

"Maybe—I would've at least wanted the option," Carol said. "Not that I would've wanted to take it, but it was an option. It was my option. Or I thought it was. If it isn't? That just means—I'm _old_."

Daryl was quiet for a moment and then he snorted. It was only then that Carol realized the snort was slightly suppressed laughter. She furrowed her brows at him. He shook his head slightly in response to the question she posed with her eyebrows.

"If you're old—I'm old," Daryl said. "And I ain't old. Fuck that."

"The whole baby thing is different for you," Carol said. "You're a man."

"No shit..." Daryl mumbled, his voice dropping volume slightly.

Carol laughed to herself.

"It _is_ different," she mused. "Let's say—let's just say that Michonne kills the Governor...to protect Andrea. Let's say that—we make this place what we're planning on making it. Some kind of safe haven. Some kind of wonderful place. Somewhere _safe_. Then babies? They might not seem like such a difficulty. Such a—problem. A worry. Then? You could still have children, Daryl, if you wanted to. You _could_ have that part of your life. The sand doesn't run out in the same way. But me? Done. I'm too old."

Daryl was quiet. He pulled himself up from his position and walked around the small amount of space that the guard tower had to offer him, stretching as many muscles as he could while he made the short walk.

"I don't guess I'm having kids," Daryl said.

It sounded like, maybe, more was to come, but nothing else came. Carol waited for it, but Daryl was done with that simple statement.

"You didn't seem too against it this morning," Carol said.

Daryl dug around in the knapsack that he'd brought up to the tower with him. It contained a few odds and ends to pass the hours that they had to spend in the tower. He came out with a cigarette, obviously slightly bent, and he straightened it thoughtfully with his fingertips before he put it to his lips and lit it by picking up the small lamp and touching the flame to the end.

There was nothing rushed about his movements—nothing urgent. He hummed more than once, though, during the process, making it clear to Carol that he was thinking about some sort of response to her.

"This morning? I thought you were pregnant," Daryl said when he finally felt ready to respond. "Thought—it was a done thing, you know? You were pregnant, we were gonna have a baby. Make the best of it or make the worst of it."

"You don't think you'd want—or that you might want—to have children?" Carol asked. "Especially if—this was the kind of place where there wasn't constant worry about something happening?"

Daryl hummed again.

"You just said—it ain't an option," Daryl replied. "If it ain't an option, there's no use wasting my time thinking about it."

Carol chuckled to herself.

"I said it wasn't an option for me," Carol said.

"Mmm...like I said," Daryl responded. "Ain't an option."

Carol swallowed and nodded—slowly realizing what Daryl was saying. It was likely the best profession that she was going to get from him, especially right now.

If it wasn't an option for her, it wasn't an option for him. They were in this together. If she'd been pregnant? If it had been even more than option? He would make the best of it. They would make the best of it. But if that wasn't the case? Then it wasn't the case for either of them.

Daryl made his way to the rail of the tower and looked down over the edge of it, toward the ground. Looking to the ground, however, was just about as useful as looking at anything else. It was dark enough that they really couldn't do much "watching" at night. The "keeping of the guard" at night was more for psychological comfort than it was for safety and most of them knew that.

"Been somebody wandering around out there," Daryl mused. "Figured out—it's Michonne. Don't know what the hell she's doing."

Carol appreciated, for the moment, the change of subject—maybe he'd known that it would be a good idea for them both.

"She's probably thinking," Carol said. "She's—got a lot on her mind. Andrea does too."

Daryl hummed again and then snubbed out his cigarette before flicking the spent butt into the darkness below them.

"Got a lot more than just on her mind," Daryl commented. "Reckon—Michonne feels she ain't had no business bringing the Governor's bastard to the prison."

Carol felt a prickle at the comment.

"You know as well as I do that it wasn't on purpose," Carol said. "You wouldn't have said anything negative about it if I'd been pregnant."

"Different," Daryl said. "Andrea and Michonne—this kid ain't theirs."

"And we don't know that Judith is biologically Rick's," Carol said, matter-of-factly. "But it doesn't matter. Not anymore. All that matters is that Rick loves her like she's his."

Daryl glanced back at where Carol was sitting, but he didn't respond. Carol thought about it a moment, running the next thought that she had through her mind and trying to decide if it was too forward. Finally, she decided that she was going to risk it. She was going to trust that—even if they didn't talk about it all that much and all that clearly—they were in a place where she could ask it.

"If it were—Sophia," Carol said. "If Sophia were here—with me—would you feel like you were...or that it inconvenienced you, or whatever...that she was Ed's daughter? Biologically?"

"Ain't the same thing," Daryl said, his voice entirely without inflection or intonation. "You know—it ain't the same thing."

Carol pushed herself up off the floor where she was sitting. She quickly stretched her own muscles, tight from staying in the same positon, and then she walked over to where Daryl was and stood beside him. She searched out, in the darkness, the movement that was Michonne below. She was barely visible, but she was clearly walking around—thinking.

"It's kind of the same thing," Carol said.

"No," Daryl said. "Weren't no other way. You were with Ed. You had Sophia. We weren't—it wasn't the same thing."

Carol stood there a moment.

"You're right," she said. "There wasn't any other way. And—Michonne and Andrea? Andrea was with the Governor. Michonne was here. She'd left—Andrea so far behind that she didn't even tell us that she'd known her. I think—that's fair, right? Just because the baby wasn't born before Andrea came back here—doesn't mean that she didn't it bring it with her from another relationship. One that she was in before whatever has happened with Michonne became—whatever it is."

"He's the damn Governor," Daryl said.

Carol hummed.

"And Ed was Ed," she said.

She sucked in a breath and held it for a moment, hoping that his calm and easy mood for the night held out for a while longer.

"And you're not your father's son. Merle—wasn't even your father's son. He died to give us this—to give us a chance. He wasn't the man that..." Carol didn't finish. Daryl was staring at her now. There was an expression on his face, but it wasn't anger. It was something else.

Carol shook her head at him.

"And if Judith is Shane's? She's not Shane. And Sophia wasn't Ed. And this baby—isn't the Governor," Carol said.

Daryl sucked his teeth.

"Why's this important to you?" Daryl asked. "What the hell's it got to do with you?"

Carol sighed.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know—I don't know it any more than I know why I feel like I feel about what Hershel said. But—still—I feel like I feel. And it's important to me."

Daryl sucked his teeth and scratched, absentmindedly, at the guard rail with his fingernail like he was trying to scratch off a stain that he couldn't have possibly seen in the darkness.

He hummed and then went silent again before he finally spoke.

"If it's important to you—I guess it matters to me," Daryl said. He looked back off into the darkness of the prison yard where Michonne wandered. "She'll come around."

He abandoned the railing then and walked back to where they'd been before, the interior part of the tower, hidden from any outside prying eyes. Carol followed him and leaned against the wall, crossing her arms against her chest.

She felt choked up, and the worst part was that she was choked with all these emotions that she couldn't begin to pick apart and understand—feelings that she couldn't begin to explain, not even to herself.

Daryl kept himself busy for a moment, fumbling with one thing or another that didn't need to be fumbled with, and then he came to stand in front of her, gnawing at the cuticle of his thumb. It was a clear sign that he was working through something in his mind.

"Who told you that you were old?" Daryl asked.

Carol was a little caught off guard by the question.

"Well—no one," she said. "Not in those words. It was—well it was Hershel that suggested it might be menopause. But that—means I'm old. The women in my family always went through menopause late in life. I'm there. It's just—it is what it is, Daryl."

He continued to gnaw at the thumb that he'd replaced to the chewing spot. Then he snorted, another half snort that led into the quiet laughter.

"Hershel told you that you were old? What the hell—he's old enough you coulda been _his_ baby," Daryl commented.

Carol laughed to herself, appreciating the comment for what it was.

"Not quite," she said.

He smiled at her, a half smile, and left off harassing his finger.

"I don't know nothing about menopause," he said. "Hell if I know anything about any of this shit. But—he don't know everything either. Maybe—he's wrong. Maybe—you know...it's still an option. For you."

Carol raised her eyebrows at him.

"Would you want it to be an option?" Carol asked.

He hummed.

"If it matters to you?" He said. "I want you to have—your option. And—I don't—I don't see why we can't work on it—you know? If it's important to you—to see if it's an option."

Carol laughed to herself. This—this was romance Dixon style. And she was learning, a little more every day, that it had its perks. And that she absolutely, positively, didn't hate it—even if she might have never suspected that before.

"What if it isn't an option?" Carol asked.

"An option you don't know you don't have," Daryl said, rolling his eyes as though he was thinking through what he'd come up with while bothering his thumb, "is still an option. And I don't see any proof that you don't have it—because you—we—certainly aren't old."

Carol smiled at him.

"We're on watch," she said, knowing already that it didn't really mean much. They couldn't watch anything at any rate.

"Oh—I'ma watch something," Daryl said. "Pretty sure—it counts."

Carol hummed and nodded.

"You know," she said, "I think you're right. I'm pretty sure—it counts."

And the practice, after all, even if Carol knew that it _wasn't_ really leading to anything, wasn't something she was exactly opposed to. Maybe—after all—there wouldn't be that much tragedy behind knowing there was no chance that she'd end up pregnant.

As long as she and Daryl both knew that it didn't mean—not now or ever—that either of them was any older than they wanted to be.


	31. Chapter 31

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Andrea wasn't sure if she felt queasy because she felt queasy or if it was because of something else.

She might feel queasy because, now that she knew she was pregnant, her mind told her that she should feel that way. After all, she knew relatively little about what it meant to be pregnant, but she did know that women were supposed to have morning sickness. Maybe she was psyching herself out.

Or maybe it was because the whole situation was overwhelming and the stress she was feeling was unsettling her stomach. She was pregnant. She'd never, not in a million years, meant for this to happen—and especially not this way. Michonne had come in, in the middle of the night sometime, and gone to bed with her, but she'd been gone this morning—gone even from the fences of the prison—leaving nothing more than the scarf tied to the cell bars to signal her intended return—even if Andrea didn't know when that intended return might be.

It could be the way that everyone was looking at her—or at least the way she imagined that they were looking at her.

Whatever the reason, physical, psychological, or otherwise, Andrea was feeling pretty queasy as she tried to keep her overactive mind occupied with random tasks around the prison yard and prayed that no one would speak to her.

Of course, she didn't have to worry about that too much. She had heard a few people speaking _about_ her, but short of Carol? And Hershel asking her if she'd taken the vitamins? Few people were speaking to her.

And she didn't mean to lose her cool over that either—but after she'd spent the morning going between tasks and walking the fences to look for any sign of Michonne only to come to lunch and find that everyone was staring at her out of the side of their eyes, if they didn't have the balls to stare at her straight on? She'd slipped. She'd slipped and lost her temper and addressed the whole lot of the group.

"You can all stop staring at me," Andrea said. "And you can all stop whispering about me. I'm not crazy and I'm not—a bomb that you're waiting on to detonate. Yes. I'm pregnant. I got pregnant by the Governor—when I was with him—and I know that's impossible to believe, but I haven't been as lucky as everyone else here. The rest of you, apparently, never made a mistake in a relationship. And you certainly never had sex without intending to get pregnant. I guess—I'm just not that lucky."

Carol started to stand up from her spot, only getting the first part of Andrea's name out, enough to make it clear that she was going to address her, but Andrea held her hand up to her and shook her head.

"Please," Andrea said. "Carol? Don't coddle me. I just want to—get the elephant out of the room? From now on? If anyone has anything to say to me? About this or anything else? Please—just feel free to directly address me."

People looked properly scolded, but nobody said anything. So Andrea took her plate and left the small room where they gathered together to eat. She stepped out into the courtyard and sat at the picnic table, staring out toward the fences.

From there she could see the construction they were working on—building areas for animals. She could see Walkers requesting entrance at the fences. And she could see the gate and the road beyond it to keep watch over whether or not Michonne intended to return.

And she saw Carol when the woman came out, her own plate in hand, and sat down across from Andrea, effectively blocking a good bit of her view of the prison yard.

"Glenn said Michonne said she was going to check out someplace nearby," Carol said. "Some place where he thinks they saw livestock. She figures it'll be easier for her to check it out alone, with less chance of spooking the animals, before they go back as a group to get them."

Andrea hummed.

"Going anywhere without me is probably best right now for Michonne," Andrea said. "She stayed out half the night. She didn't tell me where she was then, either."

"Walking the prison yard," Carol said. "Daryl and I had night watch. We saw her. She just needs time."

"She's got plenty," Andrea responded.

"What about you?" Carol asked.

Andrea shrugged.

"What about me?" She asked. "Hershel doesn't even know how far along I am. I don't know how much time I've got."

"Twelve weeks? Thirteen, maybe?" Carol said. "You don't really show yet, but there's maybe a little—a little something there? From the last time I saw you at least."

Andrea nodded and looked at her food. Suddenly it didn't seem very appetizing at all. Nothing really did. She'd choked down the food at breakfast simply because she'd known that taking the vitamins on an empty stomach would've really made her sick.

"Andrea—you don't have to do this alone," Carol said. "Michonne? She's...well, I don't know her that well, but...she's going to come around. And I'll help you out. I know what it's like to be pregnant. And I know—what it feels like to think you've got to do the whole thing alone. There wasn't really anyone that I could ask. But, at least, I had a book."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"Not too many of those around a men's prison," Andrea said.

"No," Carol said. "But—on a run? I'm sure someone can find something."

Andrea simply shook her head at Carol. It wasn't worth worrying anyone else about at this point. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, and Andrea had a feeling that she wasn't going to find the answers to the questions that she had in any book.

"I think I'm fine," Andrea said. She offered the best smile she could at the moment. "Really. I think I've got the gist of it. Eat, don't—lift things, get fat, have baby."

Carol laughed.

"There might be more than that," Carol said. "But—it's OK. If you're not in the mood to talk about it right now? We don't have to. I just wanted you to know that—the door is always open, I guess? If you did want to talk?"

Andrea nodded at her and thanked her. But she was even more thankful when Carol seemed to understand, after that, that Andrea simply wanted to sit and choke down her lunch in silence—even if she welcomed Carol's quiet company once the need for conversation was out of the way.

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There were chickens everywhere. Once Michonne found one? She felt as though she couldn't stop finding them. And there was no doubt as to why the Walkers hadn't eaten them. The birds were ridiculously quick and they zigged when she zagged and zagged when she zigged. She chased more than one, thinking to bring at least one home as proof, but she finally gave up. They'd have to trap them in, somehow, to catch them.

A few miles more? She'd come across the first cow she'd seen that day—though it wasn't the first she'd seen at all. There was no attempt made to catch it.

The horses that Glenn had told her about where in the large, fenced in pasture that he'd told her she'd find them in. The fences were down, on most sides, but it seemed that the horses returned there whenever they had a mind to—and no doubt when they weren't being pursued by Walkers.

There were supposed to be pigs as well, but Michonne hadn't stumbled upon them yet. She thought, if they looked hard enough, they were likely to find even more—but she wasn't looking that hard.

She was taking a quick inventory, but her mind was on other things.

If Andrea had gone with her when she'd left Woodbury? None of this would've happened. At least, nothing with the baby. The Governor, without a doubt, would've still found the prison and he would've wanted what they had for his own, but he wouldn't have had the opportunity to win Andrea over. And he wouldn't have had the chance to leave her with a baby to deal with.

If Michonne had told Andrea all that she'd known? If she'd—been more honest with her? Andrea might have left Woodbury.

They were neither to blame, and they were both to blame. And now? They had to be in this together.

It was killing Michonne—on more than one level—but she knew it was true. They had to be in this together.

Michonne couldn't even bring herself to wish that something would happen to this baby because she didn't know what effects that might have for Andrea. And if Andrea was going to want this baby? If this was the only chance she was going to have at having a baby, no matter how inconvenient the circumstances? Then Michonne didn't think it was fair or right to wish that away from her.

But Michonne also knew what it could do to her if she were to have this baby and something were to happen to it—if he were to return and he were to, somehow, take it away from her.

So Michonne simply had to make sure that didn't happen.

It infuriated her that the man had vanished without a trace. It drove her crazy that they had no idea where he was. She'd wandered all the way back to Woodbury—or the charcoaled remains of it—under the guise of looking for animals, but she hadn't found anything. She didn't know what she was looking for, not being a tracker, but she fairly positive that she saw no signs of life.

She saw nothing more than a few charcoaled remains of Walkers, even as she strolled through what had once been the "streets" of the place.

She'd stopped a moment outside of the building where she'd shared an apartment with Andrea. She'd stopped another outside what was left of the building where she knew he'd resided.

And she'd stopped, standing in place, just where the destroyed gates where—where it had been clear before—and remembered the day that she'd walked out of the place. The day that she'd been so angry that Andrea—demanding explanation from Michonne—had refused to leave with her because she wouldn't give her the explanation that she'd sought. Michonne knew, now, that what had made her angry was the fact that Andrea had questioned her. She hadn't simply followed her. She'd demanded explanation instead of taking things at face value and simply trusting that Michonne knew best.

Now Michonne felt sorry for the way that she'd acted—and even though she'd viewed what happened as a betrayal on Andrea's part? Now she wasn't sure at all that it hadn't been her that had really betrayed Andrea.

Michonne reminded herself, though, as she'd wandered back toward the prison, that it was all in the past. There was no need looking back. For a long time she'd refused to look back—toward the past, toward her own past—and she needed to return to that practice. As of late? She'd spent far too much time looking back—to that moment in time when they could've changed the outcome of so much. And it was too late to change it.

Now they had to look forward. Both of them. They had to keep looking forward. Living in the present and looking toward the future.

There was just this one, tiny little piece of the past that was going to refuse to remain there.

Even once Michonne succeeded in eliminating the father? The child would remain. A reminder of the past and a symbol of the future all at once.

To get through this? Michonne was going to have to cling to the "future" part of the baby. It was the only way she'd be able to handle it. It was the only way that she'd be able to be a help to Andrea—and not some kind of hindrance.

So, as she walked back toward the prison, thinking about the animals that she'd seen and preparing some kind of report in her mind to give to Glenn about what they'd probably be able to secure to keep their food sources from dwindling, Michonne also went shucking off the past—leaving it behind her, as best she could, in the dirt with the bodies of the Walkers she put down as they approached her.

She was letting it go because she had to. And she'd let it all go—just as soon as she shared with it the part that she knew she had to give to Andrea. Just as soon as she shared the piece of her past that, maybe, she owed Andrea—no matter how much she didn't want to take it out, dust it off, and share it with her. Maybe, though, it would be better for them both. Only time would tell that.

And then? That shared? There would be nowhere for either of them to look except toward the future.

Because now? They had a lot to prepare for. Even more than they'd thought before.


	32. Chapter 32

**AN: Here we are, another little chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne tried to ease her body over Andrea's as well as she could in the darkness of the cell. She'd done far too much avoiding of the situation—mostly from not wanting to face her own demons for just a little longer—and she'd let the whole day slip away. She'd let most of the night slip away. She'd come, barely spoken to anyone, and then she'd left again.

And it was all because she was having a problem facing _herself_.

So now? She was crawling over Andrea's body in an attempt not to wake her since she'd fallen asleep in Michonne's absence.

Michonne heard Andrea sniff, though, and let out something of a groan and she realized that either Andrea hadn't been asleep or she hadn't done a good job at all of not waking her.

"Are you crying?" Michonne asked into the darkness. She swiped a hand for Andrea's face, but Andrea's eyes were better adjusted to the darkness and she caught Michonne's arm by the wrist.

"I'm not crying," Andrea said.

"You're sniffing," Michonne countered.

"Weeds," Andrea said. "I was in the lower part of the prison yard, helping Tyreese. Something out there—I must be allergic. It's not fatal."

"Thank you, Dr. Harrison, for that diagnosis," Michonne responded.

Andrea moved then, out of her position, and lit the lamp in the room. She sat up and faced Michonne. Her nose was red, but Michonne wasn't certain she was lying about the allergies. It didn't really look like she'd been crying—but it did look like her nose had been running.

"What were you doing with Tyreese?" Michonne asked quickly.

"He was building pens," Andrea said. "I was holding boards for him to nail them in place. He's not much for too much conversation. It was exactly what I was looking for."

"You probably shouldn't be doing that," Michonne said.

"I was holding boards in place," Andrea said, rolling her eyes even as she said it and reaching for a handkerchief to wipe her nose once again. "It wasn't exactly hard work. And I certainly didn't have you around to—ask permission—or whatever you were expecting."

The comment stung. The tone of voice stung more, but Michonne nodded.

"I deserve that," she said. "I'm sorry. I went looking for animals. And then—I came back, but I left again. Because..."

She paused and finally sighed, rubbing at her temples where she was starting to sense the start of a headache that was probably brought on by thinking too hard for too long—and probably from skipping a meal or two.

"Andrea—I have something I have to tell you, about myself, and it isn't easy," Michonne said.

Andrea frowned.

"You can tell me whatever it is," Andrea said. "I mean..."

She laughed ironically.

"I'm not sure I can be surprised anymore," Andrea said.

Michonne swallowed against the churning in her stomach that had been going on all day long. She was sure, if she focused her attention on her hands at the moment, she would find that they were shaking.

"Just listen? Don't—interrupt?" Michonne asked.

Andrea nodded and shrugged simultaneously, but she didn't even respond verbally to that, already starting the streak of not interrupting.

"When this—hell? When it broke out? I was a different person than I am now," Michonne said. She held her hand up at Andrea, even though the blonde made no move to speak. "I know we were all different, but I mean I was—very, very different."

Michonne licked her lips. If anything had come from her wandering about—working out her thoughts alone—it was that she wasn't as emotional as she'd worried she might be, but there was still time for that.

"I was a lawyer," Michonne said. "And—I was living with my... _companion_...and—my two daughters."

She didn't look at Andrea. She didn't want to see her face. Because if there was any hint of sympathy or anything else there? It would push Michonne over the edge, and that wasn't what she wanted right now.

"I ignored—like a lot of people—the early warnings of what was happening. It was just something strange on the news. And I had to work. Mike was home with his friend—and with the girls. I went to work. While I was at work? Things just—broke loose. By the time I made it home..." Michonne stopped. She couldn't do it. She couldn't put the rest into words. She looked at Andrea then, and it was clear that whatever was rolling down her cheeks now wasn't related in the least to weeds growing around the prison. She swiped at her cheeks with the handkerchief she'd been twisting in her hands.

Michonne shook her head at Andrea. It was all she could do to finish the story that she didn't want to tell.

Andrea nodding at her and moved one hand, wrapping it around Michonne's.

"Mich—I'm so sorry," Andrea said.

Michonne shook her head at Andrea. She continued to shake it until Andrea tried to hand her a handkerchief. She wasn't holding it together as well as she'd hoped. She accepted the cloth square, wiped at her face, and continued.

"They were just babies," Michonne said, shaking her head even as she continued to speak. "Just babies—and I was so _angry_. I found my katana—after that—and I...to punish _them_ for letting it happen? I—made them into pets."

Andrea's eyes went wide when Michonne glanced at her.

"That's where you got them?" Andrea asked.

Michonne nodded.

"It was only later that I realized that they'd keep the Walkers away. At first? I just—did it because I..." She stopped and shrugged. "I just didn't know what else to do. I did—what my anger told me to do."

Andrea sat in front of Michonne on the bed now, and finally she squeezed Michonne's hand again.

"Hey—it's OK?" Andrea offered. "It's—it's OK, Mich. It's OK to be angry—and hurt. Can I—hug you?"

Michonne laughed to herself.

"You better," she responded, sniffing herself now as though she were allergic to something around her.

Andrea did hug her, and Michonne held it for longer than she had to, even though the position wasn't entirely comfortable. When she finally broke off, she finished mopping at her face and saw that Andrea did the same.

"I think," Michonne said, swallowing, "that if we're going to—go forward? We've got to put this behind us. Everything in the past needs to go there. I need that, and I think you need it too."

Andrea nodded her head, and she hummed, but she didn't speak for a moment.

"And I needed you to know that," Michonne said. "I think you needed to know that—before we try to move on from it."

She shook her head and laughed ironically to herself.

"I don't know why, but I thought you needed to know," Michonne said.

"Mich—I'm happy to know. I want to know everything about you. And—I think there are things we should put in the past, but it doesn't mean that the past goes away. It just means—we're not always looking at it?" Andrea offered.

Michonne swallowed and nodded. Rather than continue to speak at the moment, she moved her hands to gesture that Andrea should lie down with her, next to her, like she would have been doing if Michonne hadn't woken her up in the first place.

"Do you think I'm a monster? For keeping them like I did? Because I was angry?" Michonne asked quietly once Andrea settled next to her.

Andrea hummed and reached a hand to touch Michonne's arm again.

"Did you kill them?" Andrea asked.

"Does it make a difference?" Michonne asked.

Andrea didn't respond for a moment, but finally she hummed in the negative.

"I didn't kill them," Michonne said. "When I got to the house? It was closed. I opened it to find—all Walkers. I think Mike got bit—brought it inside, maybe? Died there?"

"Did you...?" Andrea asked. She didn't finish. But Michonne assumed she could guess what would be the next question on her mind. She sighed.

"I did," Michonne said. "What I had to do."

Andrea didn't say anything else, but there was nothing more to say. And Michonne didn't really want to discuss it any further so she was glad for the silence.

She reached and pulled Andrea closer to her, trying her best to mindful of anything that she needed to avoid injuring, and then she rubbed a hand over her stomach.

"I'd have noticed it myself," she commented. "If I'd been paying attention—but I wasn't paying attention."

"Noticed?" Andrea asked. She sounded like she might be going to sleep now.

"You're puffier," Michonne said. "I should've noticed."

"Even I didn't notice," Andrea said. "But—from what I understand? There will be a lot more to notice later."

Michonne hummed.

"I'll have to move," Michonne said.

Andrea started to sit up and Michonne pushed her back down.

"To the top bunk," Michonne said. "You're not going to be comfortable on this cot as it is. Not if it's anything like I remember. And there won't be room for me either. There'll barely be room for you. So I'll have to move to the top bunk."

Andrea looked at her, wide eyed.

"I don't want you to sleep in a different bed," Andrea declared.

"Above you," Michonne said. "Right up there."

The look on Andrea's face made it seem like she was equating this with something horrible. Michonne sighed.

"I think—maybe we can figure something out," Michonne said. "It might mean we sacrifice space in the cell, but we might be able to find a different—bed? Mattress?"

"We don't need space in here anyway," Andrea commented. "All we do is sleep here."

"It's not all we do," Michonne commented.

Andrea rolled her eyes, but just the suggestion of a different bed made her look lighter already.

"We're going to have to figure out," Michonne said, "what we do with the baby. I mean when it's born? Where do we put a baby?"

Andrea looked surprised.

"I hadn't thought about that, Mich," Andrea said. "I guess—it just doesn't seem real to me. It doesn't seem—like it really exists. I haven't thought about what happens later because it doesn't seem like anything's going to happen."

Michonne stopped a moment, sucked in a breath, and then nodded.

"You know what?" She said, softly. "It doesn't matter. Not right now. Not tonight. We have time to figure it out. And—believe me. One day? The day will come when it seems like it's going to happen. And then? You'll be the one asking all the important questions—like where do we put him."

Andrea shifted again.

"Him?" Andrea asked.

"Her?" Michonne asked.

It was a moot point. They had no way of knowing what the baby was before it was born. Even if they did have a way of telling, the baby in question was probably far too young for them to tell now.

Andrea nodded, though, at the suggestion that the baby might be a girl.

"Her," she said quietly.

"So you think it's a girl?" Michonne asked.

Andrea shrugged and smiled to herself.

"I think so," she said. "She'll—she'll be a girl."

Michonne hummed.

"Time will tell," she said.

"Can I ask—or do you want to talk about—what were your daughters like?" Andrea asked.

Michonne sucked in a breath and rubbed her face against Andrea's shoulder.

"Blow out the lamp?" She said. "And then? I'll—tell you what I can. While you go to sleep. We both need to sleep."

Andrea moved enough to blow out the lamp and then returned. Michonne felt around in the darkness to get in close to her again and snuggle against her.

"Mich—don't leave tonight?" Andrea asked, before Michonne could even think about what she might begin to tell Andrea about the baby girls that she hadn't spoken about in some time.

"I'm here," Michonne said. "I'm not going anywhere."

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 **AN: Just a little note to let you know that I know that the show decided to make Michonne's back story include a single son. I always base my back story of Michonne on the comics.**


	33. Chapter 33

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **Just letting everyone know, this is something of an information chapter with a small time jump.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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For a solid two weeks, they'd put every ounce of energy they had into preparing the prison as much as they could for the cold weather that would come, at this point, before the Governor ever showed his face again. The light hint of fall that had been in the air was quickly chilling and they were more aware that things needed to be done to make sure that they could make it through the colder months without freezing to death or starving out.

So it had taken every hand. And it had taken most every available hour.

But after two weeks? They were almost there.

Pens had been built. A few small shelters for outside animals had been constructed. One part of the prison, that they weren't using, had been closed up to serve as an indoor rabbit hutch. They'd collected rabbits, pigs, two cows and a bull they intended to keep only long enough to cover the cows, one horse, and nearly a dozen assorted chickens and roosters.

They couldn't plant with the weather as it was, but they'd roped off areas that would be planted as soon as Hershel gave the word, and they'd been on a number of runs to acquire seeds and every other bit of supplies that they possibly could to try to keep the cold weather months from being unbearable.

They'd worked on reinforcing the fences around the prison, a job that would never really seem done, they'd worked on making the remaining guard tower a little more comfortable for anyone forced to spend cold nights up there, and they'd started discussing what to do to, essentially, seal off the back and damaged portion of the prison to keep Walkers and humans alike from entering from that location.

They'd acquired, too, supplies to try to get solar panels on the prison in the hope of having electricity, but that was a project they hadn't begun to tackle yet. Tyreese was focusing his attention, at the moment, on getting showers running for the space, since running water to the prison would be a great asset and important for ensuring safety of those who were normally required to go out and collect water in buckets that the rain—scarce most of the time—didn't drop into their rain barrels. Their use of generators, though, made the need for figuring out solar panels even more urgent. The sooner, the better.

For two solid weeks, Michonne had gone to bed exhausted and woken up barely rejuvenated at all from the day before. Everything that might have been pressing, or even of interest, before had been pushed to the back burner to all of them. Ahead of them, still, stood projects that needed to be done and runs that needed to be made, and everything else had simply been put out of their minds in the spirit of trying to survive. Or, at least, in trying to ensure that they _might_ survive.

Michonne had all but ignored Andrea's existence. She was sorry for that, but she knew that Andrea understood because Andrea had more or less ignored Michonne as well. For the time being, it was simply because of their lives. They woke, they worked, and they slept. They slept together, but exhaustion kept them both from doing little more than collapsing into bed and falling immediately into sleep.

It was the same for everyone in the prison. Nobody spoke about anything that wasn't related to some task or another because they were too tired to waste words when their breath was better put to use elsewhere.

The very first day that Michonne realized they were making enough progress to actually be able to rest, she didn't know how to feel. She hadn't slowed down enough to feel anything but urgency thus far. Now, though, it was looking like some of the "ideas" they had might actually be able to turn into reality.

It was almost possible to forget that somewhere, out there, was a madman that would like nothing more than to see every one of them dead.

"Showers are working," Tyreese announced, walking down toward the area of the fences where Michonne and Daryl were working to secure another layer of wire that would make them even sturdier than they already were. "Water's working throughout that area. Can't run machines, but it should make the laundry and things easier to do without having to haul it."

"Still gotta heat it?" Daryl asked.

He was concerned, throughout the development of one project or another, that things were being done that would benefit everyone—and by everyone, he mostly meant to see that Carol wasn't ignored.

Tyreese nodded.

"It's better to heat it over the fire whenever we can," Tyreese said. He shook his head. "Until there are panels up? It's best to stretch the generators. At least—by my calculations, and those aren't exact—it won't be much of a strain to have hot showers once a day."

Michonne grew amused and turned away, a little ashamed of herself, but Daryl caught her expression before she turned her face entirely out of his vision and he chuckled.

"I'm sure we'll save water," he said, putting word to what she'd been thinking—and apparently what he'd been thinking too. "Double up and all."

Tyreese chuckled too.

Two weeks, too, had gone a long way for changing some of the atmosphere around the prison. Though the constant work had meant that people might not be able to spend as much time as they'd like in the presence of their chosen loved ones—especially depending on the jobs they'd ended up working on—it had required them to spend time with other people. And that, whether they wanted it or not, had required more open communication between them.

It had forced people who wouldn't normally sit down and talk to each other to do just that. They'd shared rationed food on runs and discussed needs and safety. They'd gathered over meals and talked about concerns and fears—dreams, wishes and hopes.

Two weeks at the prison had gone a long way.

Even though Michonne might have been limited to the time that she spent one on one with Andrea, she felt like they'd managed to grow quietly closer. The constant of work and the repetitive schedule had created a type of comfort. The comings and goings of runs—always a kiss upon leaving and a kiss upon returning—had created a more easy affection between them. As they worked, Michonne trusted Andrea to take care of herself and take breaks when she needed them—and she trusted Carol to make sure that Andrea remembered, should she just happen to forget the things she owed to herself.

Two weeks had also gone a long way in finding them both a place in the prison.

Andrea and Michonne, both, might have been somewhat to blame for bringing the Governor to the prison, and perhaps that was in the back of everyone's minds at all times, but nobody had mentioned it in two weeks. Beyond the safety measures they were taking, in fact, nobody had mentioned the man at all. Andrea and Michonne were both pulling their weight in the group, and nobody could say anything to the contrary. Both of them worked from sun up to sundown, just like everyone else, even if Andrea's jobs were more often of the "day to day" jobs that still had to be done while everyone else was engaged in the preparations for winter.

When things calmed once more and people were left to let their minds run free, there was a chance that they would bring up some past annoyances with Michonne and Andrea, but for the moment they had put them behind them. The only thing that remained, if Michonne had to point anything out at all, was perhaps a little residue "distance" on the part of a few people—but it wasn't enough to concern her greatly. She didn't feel that she had to be close to everyone, and she certainly didn't expect all of them to love her.

Two weeks made a lot of difference, but it didn't change everything. It simply put, honestly, a good deal _on hold_.

"Double up or triple up," Tyreese said. "I don't care. I'm just passing on the information. There are two stalls working right now. Don't use any of the toilets and the sinks don't work. But—at least there are two stalls. Hot showers for everyone tonight."

"Have you already got a waiting list?" Michonne asked.

Tyreese shook his head.

"Not yet," he said. "First come, first serve. But..."

"I knew there was a but," Michonne teased. "Hot showers right now are too good to be true."

Daryl chuckled at that.

"But—there won't be hot water until at least after dinner," Tyreese said. "Give it time. That also gives everyone time to wrap up what we're doing. I'm looking to start on those panels tomorrow, now that the showers are done, can I count on some help?"

Michonne nodded her head.

"If you'll help us get the rest of this wire up," she said, "then we'll help get the panels up."

"And we've got to get the rest of those—damn things—in place," Daryl said, drawing a quick line in the air with his finger. It didn't matter that he couldn't recall the word for the spike strips they were running at different points across the road that led down to the prison entrance, Michonne and Tyreese both knew what he was talking about because they had both been involved in going to find them.

Tyreese nodded at Daryl.

"We'll get those too," he said. "But then—let's get a move on those panels. We get good sun here. We'll get good power from them, and it might be a cold winter."

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Andrea turned on the shower and jumped back when it spit the water out in several violent spurts before it started with something of a steady stream. Behind her, in the small bathroom, she heard Carol let out something of a squawk of surprise and she heard Sasha dissolve into laughter—most probably over their reactions more than anything else.

"Been so long since you were clean, you're scared of water?" Sasha asked.

Andrea rolled her eyes to herself, but she did laugh.

"I wasn't expecting it to come out like that," Andrea offered as an explanation.

She reached a hand back and Carol hummed at her.

"No," Carol said. "Nope—your job is to hand us what we need. But Sasha and I are going to be the two that are in there fooling around with the cleaners. These are pretty strong. I wouldn't touch them without the gloves and you definitely don't need to have your face down there—just breathing them in."

Andrea sighed.

"I don't think..." she said, but she never finished.

Carol already had that look on her face, and Andrea knew it well by now. She'd seen it at least three times a day for the past few weeks. It was the look that said that Carol wasn't going to discuss it. She was simply "putting her foot down" and exercising whatever power she had. She wasn't going to let Andrea do something that she saw as dangerous.

Andrea stepped out of the shower and wiped her hands on her slightly damp dress.

"I'm glad you let me go first and get wet," Andrea said. "That was valiant of you."

Carol chuckled.

"You rushed in here," Carol said. "I didn't want to steal all your thunder."

Andrea stood over to the side, arms crossed, and watched as Carol took one stall and Sasha took the other after she'd let the shower spit water as it would. They both set to work scrubbing the stalls to make them clean enough for everyone to use.

It was a dirty job. It was the kind of job that nobody would have normally wanted. But—if it meant hot showers in clean stalls? It was job that anyone would have taken these days.

And though Andrea had yet to use her almost-wholly-ignored pregnancy for anything around the prison, she was already trying to fashion it into a reason that she should get one of the very first showers.

After all, even though it hadn't been too bad as of yet, she knew there were surely negative aspects of this pregnancy to come—and if she was going to have the negative? She might as well get some positive out of it too.


	34. Chapter 34

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Am I supposed to just stand out here?" Michonne asked. "Holding everything?"

Andrea sighed from her place inside the shower. She hadn't had to come up with an excuse to take the first shower. Carol had done it for her by suggesting that—in her condition, of course—she probably needed to take a shower as soon as she could and get off of her feet.

Now she was in the shower and Michonne was standing outside, apparently with their clothes and towels.

Andrea had taken her time letting Michonne into the shower because she'd had a shock of her own. When she'd first come into the bathroom and stripped down—entirely alone in the large space—she'd caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors they'd wiped clean and left streaked.

Despite its streaks, the mirror still reflected back the truth of what it saw under the new-to-them lights of the bathroom. And the truth, honestly, was nothing like Andrea remembered herself looking.

Her hair was longer than it had been when she'd first run her car off the road with Amy at their first sight of a Walker—hours before they'd encountered Dale. Her face was peeling slightly from sunburn that she hadn't even really paid attention to. She thought her face looked more aged than it had—and it certainly looked fuller.

But even that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was when she let her eyes trail lower. Her breasts were different, and they were even different in the mirror than they were when she looked down at them in the dim light of the cell. She wasn't fat, exactly, but she was larger than she was. And when she turned sideways? All the "bloated" and "fat" feelings that she had were confirmed. Maybe she didn't look like what she would have defined as "pregnant," but she definitely was carrying weight she hadn't had before just around her belly.

The scars that were left behind from her encounter with the Governor? She'd only seen them from looking at them—and now she wished she'd never looked in the mirror.

She knew that Michonne had seen her, up close and personal, just the way that she'd seen Michonne—but she was a little nervous that maybe she hadn't seen her quite this well before. She was a little worried that Michonne might be taken aback.

The only comfort, honestly, at the moment was that she knew that Michonne was very likely different in this light than she'd been at Woodbury—the last time they'd had any light source even remotely like this by which to examine one another. And Andrea was more than willing to accept whatever she might see, so she hoped Michonne would feel the same—even if Michonne might very well be getting the short end of the stick.

"You can put everything in one of the sinks," Andrea said. "Carol and Sasha cleaned them for that, but they don't work."

"Does that mean I can come in now?" Michonne asked.

"I'm not quite done shaving," Andrea admitted. "This razor's seen far better days, Mich."

Michonne laughed from outside.

"Don't I know it," she said. "As it so happens, I have a few fresh razors that I found. Tomorrow night? We'll use one of those. For now? It's good as it is."

Andrea hummed.

"I don't know," she said. "It's pretty bad. I'm feeling a little like a half-plucked chicken."

Michonne laughed.

"Can I come in? You might as well let me. One of these days? You're not going to be able to shave hardly at all. And who do you think's going to help you then?" Michonne asked.

She took her own justification as an invitation into the shower stall because a few moments later she poked her head into the curtain before she apparently rid herself of a towel and quickly jumped behind the curtain that Carol and Sasha had soaked in bleach for so long that it still smelled strongly of the liquid despite their efforts to rinse it.

She didn't say anything about Andrea's appearance immediately. Instead, Michonne wrapped her hand around Andrea's and then took away the pathetic pink excuse for a razor. She examined it in the glow of the electric lights—to which they were victims only in the small space of the bathroom—and put it on the top of the wall that separated one stall from another.

Andrea examined Michonne quickly, but she couldn't find much that had changed about the woman since Woodbury—nothing that she hadn't already noticed in their cell—and her "transformation," if there was any at all, was certainly nothing like that that Andrea had undergone—or that she was undergoing.

"I've got better ones," Michonne said. "And we're going to look for some we can sharpen. That's really the best long term plan. You'll kill yourself with those. See? Already bleeding."

She reached a hand and traced a fingertip across Andrea's leg where there was a small trickle of blood from a pinprick cut. Andrea was surprised, then, that Michonne didn't say anything about her body. Either she didn't notice anything, or she didn't feel the need to point it out. In fact, the only thing that Michonne did was rinse her finger under the trickle of water and touch Andrea's shoulder, squeezing it affectionately.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Michonne said. "I'm prickly too. We've both been far harrier."

Andrea snorted.

It was true. There had been times, during the months that they'd travelled together between the farm and Woodbury, when there were hardly places for them to steal a less than satisfactory bath. They certainly didn't have the opportunity to shave or indulge in any of the other luxuries during that time—yet it hadn't really changed anything.

Michonne set to washing herself and Andrea finished rinsing her hair once last time before she stepped to the side of the stall to give Michonne more room to do what she needed to do.

Finally, Michonne looked at her out of the side of her eye and chuckled.

"You're a little bit of a peeping Tom right now," Michonne teased.

"I feel like I haven't even seen you in months," Andrea admitted. She shook her head at Michonne, aware of the extra shower of water her curls caused.

"It hasn't been months," Michonne said. "If it had? I think we'd be able to tell. There's a little something there—but I'm pretty sure I've eaten meals that were bigger than that baby is right now. Carol says she thinks you could be so far as fifteen or sixteen weeks? By sixteen weeks? I have to admit—I was showing, and I mean a lot more than...whatever you can call what you're doing."

Andrea hummed and ran her hand down her own body. There was something there. She was starkly aware of it and aware of all the changes in her own body, even if nobody else really noticed them. She knew she wasn't as huge as she felt, but it didn't change the fact that she felt uncomfortable with the newfound weight that she'd gained, especially since she couldn't attribute it to any food in particular and she certainly couldn't blame it on having been far too sedentary. Still, she found it comforting that it didn't seem to bother Michonne at the moment.

Michonne's eyes continued to study Andrea now that they'd started.

"The burn," Michonne said. "I hadn't—noticed it either."

Andrea lightly traced her fingertip over it. Michonne's tone hadn't seemed negative, exactly. She only seemed to be reciting fact, not passing judgement.

"It's almost entirely healed," Andrea said when she noticed Michonne continue to look at the scar. "It feels strange, when I touch it? But I think it's just—that's just the scar? It's a little tender if I press it."

Michonne hummed then.

"My recommendation, then, is don't press it," she said.

Andrea smiled at her and teasingly rolled her eyes.

"You're taking forever," Andrea jokingly whined in response. "I'm freezing to death."

"Go dry off," Michonne said. "You don't have to wait and I won't be a moment more. I was warned about saving hot water for everyone else. When we get back to the cell? We'll find a way to keep warm."

Andrea's smile broadened. Apparently Michonne wasn't half as bothered as Andrea's paranoia when facing herself in the mirror had suggested she might be. It was almost as if the other woman couldn't see what the streaky, half cleaned mirror had revealed to Andrea's eyes.

"We have an early morning tomorrow," Andrea warned, not really trying to deter Michonne.

"Not as early as it has been," Michonne responded.

It was a fact that Andrea couldn't argue with. Everyone, after all, had declared the next day to be a "sleep in" day—meaning that some of them might actually still be in their cells when the sun rose. And Andrea hoped that she and Michonne were among the lucky ones.

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Carol wasn't sure which part of the experience was more amusing—the fact that Daryl had never taken a shower with her before and seemed to think that it had some dramatic and, possibly, terrifying catch to it, or the fact that Daryl, soaking wet from a shower that was unlike any bucket bath they'd taken, looked like he was drowning in water and his own hair.

"Tomorrow morning," Carol said, "I'm cutting your hair."

Daryl hummed at her and shook his head, the splatter from the water going everywhere in the stall like it might have done if an oversized dog had decided to shake themselves after an unwelcomed bath.

"Trying to mount solar panels tomorrow," Daryl said, as though he thought that was a viable excuse to skip a haircut.

"I'll be quick about it," Carol said. "Besides—it'll be better if you can see while you're playing around on the roof."

Daryl side eyed her, but Carol was undeterred.

She was almost done washing, and she offered quickly to get his back for him. He turned around, offering her that part of his body, and she gently scrubbed at it with the wash cloth that they'd been passing back and forth. Washcloths and towels, now that Carol was paying attention to them more than she had been when they'd all been bathing out of tubs, were on their next run list along with linens and extra clothes to withstand the cold of the winter.

Daryl leaned back into her, obviously enjoying the washing more than he might want to let on, and Carol took her time slowly rubbing the rag over every inch of his back again. Beneath it, and beneath her fingers, she traced each line that was marked there—all of them far more horrifying in the harsh electric light that hung overhead.

She knew, too, that in this light he could see more of her than he'd ever seen before. She'd frozen, herself, almost terrified to step into the shower once she'd stripped down and seen herself in the unforgiving glow. But, finally, she'd gathered up her courage into the sticking place and she'd joined him—and he'd said nothing at all. And she'd said nothing at all about all the imperfections of Daryl that the light had shown her.

It just didn't matter.

Carol balled the rag into her fist and she leaned her body against him—against his back—and wrapped her arms around him.

For a moment, Daryl froze and his body went rigid. Then, after a second, and after he realized what was happening, he relaxed and brought his hands to hers, covering his fingers with her own.

She leaned up enough to kiss his back, right where her lips allowed it, and then she rested her cheek against him again.

"You trust me to cut your hair, don't you?" She teased.

"Don't scalp my ass," he warned.

Carol laughed to herself, her laughter shaking Daryl slightly.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she said. "I love your hair. I just—don't think you need more of it than everyone else at the prison combined. Besides—you keep brushing it out of your eyes. Imagine how much better you'll feel when it's not in them anymore."

Daryl patted her hand with his in response.

"You gonna cut yours?" He asked.

Carol hummed.

"I hadn't really thought about it," Carol admitted. "Do I need it?"

Now it was Daryl's turn to hum. He pulled away from her, turned his body in the shower, and faced her. At the moment, he seemed more relaxed than he had during the whole of the shower until now. Maybe he was realizing that nothing about a shared shower had to be any more terrifying than anything else—besides, they'd already learned that neither of them liked the practice of trying to have sex against a wall. And a shower wall, though different than a watchtower wall, was still a wall.

Daryl brought his hand to the nape of Carol's neck and rested it there for a second before he rubbed his fingertips of the back of her neck and into her hair. It took her a moment, but she realized that he was, essentially, stretching her hair out between his fingers and testing its length.

After what seemed like a quite intense study of her hair, after all he'd furrowed his brow and chewed his lip in the process, and just before Carol started to grow uncomfortable with such careful study, Daryl sucked his teeth and gently shook his head.

"No," he said, his voice low. "You don't need no haircut. You need to—leave it be. I like it. Starting to curl a little at the ends."

Carol felt her face run hot.

"My hair used to be curly," she said.

"Still is," he responded. "Or it wouldn't curl."

"I meant it's been a long time since I've seen it curl," Carol said.

"Leave it?" Daryl asked. "It's...soft."

Carol chuckled to herself and finally nodded.

"If you like it?" She said. "I'll leave it."

The half-smile that she often got from Daryl flitted across his lips at her agreement to let her hair remain as it was for the time being. She offered him a soft smile of her own and then she let it transform into a smirk as she brought her fingers up to pick at his soaked hair.

"But you're still getting a haircut tomorrow," she said.


	35. Chapter 35

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol hadn't expected things to go quite like they went. Sometimes, though, that happened. Sometimes things got away from you. She'd been doing laundry with Sasha, Karen, and Maggie. That was it—doing laundry.

Innocently enough, Karen had started up a strand of conversation based on Carol's "friendship" with Andrea, and in search of information about what she might know, since, as Karen had put it, both Michonne and Andrea could be hard to get close to.

Michonne might not be the easiest nut to crack—though Carol had noticed her softening more and more as she settled into the prison community and seemed to find a "niche" for herself there—but she didn't find Andrea to be difficult to reach at all. The only thing, and she pointed this out, was that to reach Andrea, one needed to make some sort of effort to do so. At least, to reach her, one needed to have some sort of conversation with her. Almost anything would do—she was helping Daryl nail up chicken wire at the moment and, based on what Carol had heard when she'd taken them water, the two of them had seemed to find conversational ground based entirely on Daryl's feelings about different kinds of chickens that they were finding.

Michonne and Andrea weren't hard to get to know—but some effort went a long way.

So, from there, she'd answered Karen's questions, and a few presented by Sasha, and she didn't think about it all. They were basic questions. Everyday information. There was nothing difficult to answer. There was nothing that Carol thought required a great deal of thought.

She hadn't expected, when prompted to talk about how Andrea was dealing with the idea of the pregnancy—which she barely seemed to be dealing with at all for the moment—that Maggie would become disgruntled when Carol made the innocent statement that she was thinking of telling Glenn that, on his next time out on a run, he might pick up a baby related item or two for Andrea.

Carol's point, and her full intention behind the request, was that it might be nice for Andrea to have something—some little item or another—that was simply for her baby. There were plenty of things that got brought in for Judith—and probably with the idea that they could be handed down—but it might be nice for her to have something personal. Something visual and material. There weren't the little things now that they'd once taken for granted. There was no heartbeat that she could hear. There were no fuzzy ultrasound pictures to look at. It was still too early for her know that the baby was kicking. Something—some object—might go a long way for making it seem like a real thing and not just something that got mentioned every now and again with less enthusiasm than the weather.

But Maggie, suddenly, seemed to take a very great offense to the suggestion. Her snide remark caught Carol off-guard, but most assuredly didn't go over her head. The tone of voice, above all, was duly noted.

"We have more than enough stuff for Judith," Maggie said. "There's no need to go after more when there's enough here."

Carol stared at the woman.

"The baby can use most of Judith's stuff," Carol said. "I'm not talking about bringing back trucks full of things. I'm talking about _one thing_ that's not coming out of a cardboard box of hand me downs."

"There wasn't that much effort put into things for Lori," Maggie said.

Carol was trying to check her annoyance, for the moment, with Maggie.

"Things were different," Carol said. "We were on the road. It was different for all of us. We're settled now. We're all afforded little luxuries."

She tipped her head and smiled at Maggie.

"Nobody said a thing when you and Glenn got a special mattress set for your cell and nobody else did," Carol said. "This is a good deal less of a challenge on a run than moving mattresses."

For a moment it seemed to shut Maggie down. She looked angry, but she didn't respond. Finally, though, when she did respond, she did it with even more venom than before.

"This is not something that I'm going to—celebrate," Maggie said, shaking her head. "It's not something Glenn's going to be forced to celebrate. That man? He was a horrible man, Carol. He is a horrible man. We're not celebrating his child."

Carol started to say something, but Maggie interrupted her.

"You know what he's like!" Maggie said. "And just because he didn't come after you personally..."

She left it unfinished, but picked up immediately with another idea.

"He did come after me personally. He did abuse me and he did abuse Glenn," Maggie said.

Carol might have responded to that, but she didn't get the chance. Apparently, in the window of time that she'd been talking to Maggie, Andrea had sauntered up in their direction—Daryl not far behind—to announce that they were done with the task that they'd been working on.

Andrea had heard Maggie. It was the, apparently, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back because she rushed right into the area where they were working and, if she hadn't stopped her feet in time, she might've simply collided, physically, with Maggie.

"I'm so sorry!" Andrea yelled, not trying to check her tone of voice at all. "I'm so sorry—and I'm so sick of—I'm sorry for what happened to you! I'm sure it must have been horrible for you!"

Carol wasn't even trying now. She assumed, though she couldn't see herself, that she was probably wearing the same expression that Karen and Sasha were wearing—a look of surprise brushed over with a little bit of horror.

Andrea snatched the shirt she was wearing over her head quickly and threw it at the ground without a care.

"Are we even now? Can we be even Maggie? Anyone who wants to see my breasts? Anyone here—and anyone who comes? Here they are! Are we even now? I know that I can't fix it for you—but can we at least get past this?" Andrea yelled.

Maggie looked a little horrified too, but nobody was rushing to her rescue. At the moment, nobody was rushing to do a thing.

"I know that I don't know how you felt—violated? Afraid for someone you cared about? I know I don't know how you felt, but I can try to relate," Andrea said. She was either starting to calm or she was simply running out of steam. She'd exhausted herself with the first outburst and the stamina just wasn't there.

Maggie never got to say a word, though, before Daryl scrambled into the circle. He clearly didn't know what to do, but he was reacting faster than Carol felt she could. He caught Andrea in something of a bear hug and then he picked her up. When he started for the prison with her, Carol started after him, and he yelled back at Maggie.

"I don't know how fast you can run—but Michonne's on her way up the yard and she's movin' quick," Daryl barked.

Carol scrambled after him.

"I don't know what happened," Carol let him know. He wasn't paying her much attention, though, because Andrea's instinct, obviously, was to fight against the hold that he had on her and he was doing his best to keep from dropping her.

He took her straight to the shower room, a good choice in Carol's opinion, and went straight to a stall. Carol might not have suggested practically throwing Andrea at the floor like Daryl did, but she assumed that maybe he didn't know how else to put her down. He reached in, apparently turned on the cold water, and soaked himself in the process.

But it worked.

Andrea scrambled backwards across the tile space of the shower stall, trying to escape the icy blast of water, but whatever fight she'd had in her was essentially wiped out.

Daryl turned, panting himself, and looked at Carol. She frowned.

"I've got her," Carol said. "You did good. I've got her."

Daryl hummed and nodded, glanced back at Andrea, balled up in the corner for the moment still coming down from her anger and still trying not to freeze, and then he looked back at Carol.

"What happened?" He asked.

She shook her head at him. He understood it. He knew that it simply meant they'd talk about it later. When they were alone? They'd talk about it. Now wasn't the time, and certainly not in present company.

"Check on Michonne?" Carol asked.

Daryl smirked.

"You really worried about her? It's Maggie's ass she was gonna kick...you worried about 'Chonne?" Daryl asked.

Carol frowned at him.

"Daryl, please?" Carol asked.

He chuckled.

Apparently wrangling Andrea hadn't been that big of a deal to him. Maybe it had gotten his adrenaline pumping, even. But the idea of going to make sure Michonne was OK and play referee—or whatever he needed to do—amused him.

He left without saying anything else, and Carol walked to stand directly in front of the shower stall so that she could see Andrea, her back against the shower wall and her head on her knees, sitting there.

"Have you cooled down enough?" Carol asked.

Her lips were practically blue. Carol would guess she was freezing. That was possibly why she was trying to draw herself up in the tightest ball possible.

"Andrea?" Carol prompted. "You want me to get Michonne?"

No response.

"You've gotta come out of there," Carol said. "Or you'll get pneumonia and the baby will be the first child ever to have pneumonia in utero."

Andrea looked at her, visibly shivering at this point. Her teeth clattered enough that Carol could hear them and she looked around then for one of the clean towels that she had put in the small room.

"I—want—to—go—home," Andrea stammered out, her words made slower and more stunted by the obvious chill. The water, though, was cold to the point that it made Carol's hands cramp if she put them in it before warming it—coming straight from the underground well—so she wouldn't think being soaked in the water would make her the most clear thinking person either.

"Reach your arm up?" Carol prompted. "Right above your head? You can reach it from there. Twist it off. I've got a towel."

It took a moment, and some fumbling around, but Andrea found the knob, turned it, and then sat there shivering without the constant shower of cold water. Carol stepped in, finally, and wrapped the towel around Andrea's shoulders, a second one ready to wrap her in when she got her to her feet.

"I want to go home. I want—to go home," Andrea declared again.

"You are home," Carol insisted. "You're home. This is your home. And I'm going to walk you back to your cell and get you warmed up."

But Carol knew what the declaration meant. She understood it, even if she was pretending that she didn't. She, too, had muttered it before when it wouldn't have made sense to anyone—when she was in her bedroom floor after some fight or another with Ed. It wasn't a wish for a physical place. It wasn't a hope for a geographical location. It was something, at least in her experience, that came from the very animal nature of everyone—perhaps from the child that lived inside of everyone. It was a want, not for a physical home, but for everything that might idealistically represent.

 _Safety. Love. Comfort. Acceptance. Peace._

It was the cry of someone who had reached their limit. The good news, and Carol knew this, was that people often had more limits than they thought they had.

She got Andrea up, out of the shower stall, and dried her off with the soggy towel she'd wrapped around her first. Then she offered her the dry one to wrap around herself for warmth. It shouldn't take too long to thaw out now that she was dry.

"It's not Michonne's job to fight for me," Andrea said. "It's not—your job to fight for me, Carol."

Carol laughed to herself.

"If you hadn't been willing to die for me?" Carol offered. "I would be dead right now. If you hadn't been willing to die for me? You'd have never split from the group. You'd have never met Michonne, of course, but you'd have never gone to Woodbury. You'd have never met the Governor—at least not the way you did—and you wouldn't be pregnant with his baby. So—I guess it's just fine for me to have a word of prayer with Maggie if I need to. And—I don't think you're woman enough to stop me."

Andrea was thawing out. Her eyes were starting to look normal. Tired now, but normal. She was coming back into herself from the snap. Everyone deserved their moments. Carol wasn't going to hold her outburst against her—and she doubted Daryl was either.

"I'm sorry for what he did to her," Andrea said. "To Glenn. To—everyone. I wanted to believe that he was a good person. I was stupid."

"You were you," Carol said, shaking her head but continuing to rub her hands over Andrea's arms, over top of the towel, to warm them. She imagined, too, that the motion might have something of a soothing effect that couldn't hurt at the moment. "Really? You did nothing wrong. And anything that—anything that remains for you and Michonne to discuss? That's for you two to discuss. But that's got nothing to do with me or—with Maggie—or with anyone else at the prison. And you—and this baby—neither one is responsible for what the Governor did or what he might do. Maggie's just being spoiled and disagreeable. But she'll learn to get over that."

Carol laughed to herself.

"I have a feeling Michonne's going to insist she get started getting over it right about now," Carol added.

Andrea, normal color returning to her face and the shivering now under control, went wide eyed. She shook her head.

"She doesn't need to..." she started, but Carol interrupted her.

"I promise you," Carol said. "Anything that Michonne says or does right now? It's something she does need to do. And you need to go get some clothes on. So let's go. Michonne's a big girl. She can take care of herself. And—she can take care of you, if that's what she feels like she needs to do. I'm not going to stop her."


	36. Chapter 36

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne swiped at the corner of her mouth where the slight pulling sensation and the earlier tickle from the trickle of blood kept drawing her attention like a hair or spider web or something that might be laying there. She'd given Maggie one swing. That was it. She'd given her the one swing as something of a charity act.

Michonne didn't mean to end up brawling in the yard with Maggie like school kids on the playground, but she'd been on her, in the dirt, before she'd even really realized what she was doing. They'd sent Sasha and Karen scattering and laundry and water had gone everywhere to leave them essentially mud wrestling to some degree.

Daryl had pulled them apart. He was muddy for his efforts, but he didn't seem to notice or mind.

Now they were all gathered together like the principal would pass judgment on what happened as soon as he got around to it. The metal chairs they'd gathered together in the room sat in a rough circle and almost everyone was sitting. Daryl was on his feet, leaning against the back of Carol's chair with one hand on either side of her shoulder, and Michonne was on her feet and pacing slightly in the middle of the circle. But everyone else was sitting.

Immediately Carl had been excused. He hadn't had anything to add—per his own words—and he'd gone out to "keep watch" for any outside activity. The rest of the prison, though, was in attendance. Carol sat, legs crossed, like she was waiting for a movie to start and kept an arm ever around Andrea's shoulder—offering comfort for which Michonne was silently thankful.

"We can't have fighting like this," Rick said from his seat. "We won't destroy each other. One at a time."

"It was a misunderstanding," Hershel said. "One that I'm sorry for. But nobody is destroying anyone."

"Your apology, although appreciated, is neither needed nor wanted," Michonne said. "Not yours. You didn't do anything and your daughter is old enough that you're not expected to control her anymore."

"Michonne..." Rick said, using the same tone of voice he might have used if she were an unruly child. She quieted, but she didn't try to be more pleasant and she didn't offer any apology. She hadn't hurt Maggie—not really. The eye might blacken as the night went on and the lip would have to heal, but Michonne knew she could've done much worse with her bare hands.

"I'm not sorry for what I said," Maggie protested—though she did it from a position that partially hid her behind Hershel. Glenn was close by her side and Beth was on the other with Judith. They formed a tight pocket.

The dividing line was clear to anyone who was looking for it. My side. Your side. The others.

"Andrea and I both want respect," Michonne asserted. "That's it. A basic human right. A human request. We want respect for our individual selves, for our relationship, and for the baby. You don't have to like it. You don't have to support it. We're not asking for that. We're asking for respect."

"Can I just—can I say something?" Karen asked. When she had the attention of everyone, she spoke again. "I knew the Governor. I—believed him to be a good man. He was a little off, sometimes, maybe? But—I thought that anyone would be. Anyone in his position would have to have—things—that they were dealing with. I didn't know what he was until it was too late. Maybe? If circumstances had been different? It could've been me that was with him."

She shook her head.

"I have nothing to contribute to this and I'd be better working to finish up the laundry we started," Karen said. "There's no bad blood here. And I didn't mean for anything I asked to start this. It was honest, genuine curiosity."

She stood up, indicating her wish to leave, and Michonne thanked her. Apparently her thanks dismissed her, because Karen left. And, upon seeing Karen go, Sasha immediately offered her own response to things.

"I don't have any problems either," she said. "I was in Woodbury. I wanted to stay there. Things might have been a little off sometimes, but the truth is that it wasn't even the scariest thing I've seen. Besides—Andrea isn't the Governor. Neither is Michonne. Or even the baby. From what I see? We're in this together. That's the only way we're going to keep him out, and that's our ultimate goal."

When Michonne thanked her, after she'd said everything she had to say, she left as well. Her brother followed quickly after with a similar declaration. For him? The baby was a baby and that was all. It was a tiny baby that was no threat to anyone. If anything? It begged for protection because it wouldn't be able to protect itself.

He left as well. They all went back to work—back to life as usual.

"I gotta say," Daryl said, as soon as Tyreese left the space, "that I don't understand all the squabblin' going on. Baby's a baby. It's Andrea that's gotta have it and Michonne that's offering to raise it. Don't matter who the hell the kid's old man is."

He chuckled to himself.

"At least—that's how I took it things worked around here, but it might be me that was wrong," Daryl added.

Michonne bit her lip, felt the pull of the skin there, and kept herself from smiling. She understood the dig that was being made—the point that was being driven home—and she hadn't even been with the group that long. She thanked Daryl. Instead of leaving, though, he simply straightened up from his position and went to lean against the wall, keeping watch over them all, as though he were making sure that his services weren't needed by anyone.

Carol's message was clear to everyone even before she spoke, but she did take a moment to declare firmly where she stood. It was of no surprise. But now they were getting down to the other side of things.

"Beth?" Michonne asked.

The young girl looked to her family for some kind of silent communication about what she should say—what she should believe. Michonne sighed.

"What's your feelings on things? We'll hear theirs soon enough," Michonne pressed.

Beth looked back at her.

"I know what kind of a man the Governor was," she said. "I know that he would've killed us. You know what kind of a man he was."

Michonne swallowed.

"I do," she said. "As well as anybody. But whether or not he's a good person or the...devil? We aren't debating that."

Beth shook her head to excuse herself.

"I don't want to say anything about it," she said. "I don't—have any opinion."

"Do you not have an opinion? Or are you too afraid to say what it is that you think?" Michonne asked.

"Michonne..." Rick said, issuing the same warning in the same tone that he'd used before.

It excused Beth, at any rate, but Michonne didn't fall silent enough not to add her last thoughts to it.

"The baby's just a baby," Michonne said. "No different than Judith. And we've got nothing to fear from Judith."

Beth didn't respond, but she shifted uncomfortably.

Hershel sighed then.

"I have nothing against either of you two," Hershel said. "Or the child. While I may not—understand—your relationship with one another? I'm also old enough to know that it's none of my business. I'll continue to offer you all the best care that I can. I'll continue to consider us friends. I think—the issue here—is that both of you, and the child, are the closest link that we have to the Governor. Without the man to put those feelings on? It's natural to search somewhere else as an outlet. Not right, but natural."

"You brought the Governor to us," Maggie said, looking toward Michonne.

"Wrong," Michonne said. "Merle brought the Governor to you. He brought you to the Governor. However you want to look at it. And he tried to kill the Governor to save you. He died for that. You can't ask more from him."

Maggie stared at her.

"He wanted you," Maggie said. That piece of information had travelled well through the prison. Everyone, at this point, knew that Michonne had been something of a bargaining chip for the Governor—or at least that he'd pretended she was.

"He would've killed me," Michonne said. "He would've killed me the same way that he intended to kill Andrea."

"Worse," Andrea offered quietly. It was the only word she'd said since she'd taken a seat next to Carol.

"Maybe," Michonne agreed. "Regardless, though, of my death? The Governor would come back. He'd come back because he was crazy and he wanted what he wanted. He didn't want to fail at getting what he wanted. He'd be back here even if Andrea and I left today."

Michonne sighed and walked closer to Maggie. Maggie flinched, like she expected a tackle attack like the one that Michonne had employed outside, but Michonne held up her hands to demonstrate that wasn't her intention at all.

"Everyone here has done something that they shouldn't be proud of," Michonne said. "Everyone of us has something. When I found Andrea? She'd been fighting for her life, alone, for almost twenty four hours. She still wanted to look for you all. She still wanted to return to the farm and to the highway. When I finally had to tell her that we had to move on? That you weren't coming back? When I had to know that she didn't sleep well at night because she had visions of everyone leaving—and she still forgave you all in the morning? I thought that this group was the worst group of people alive. I told her I hoped we found you—but really? I hoped that I never laid eyes on people who would treat someone like that who regarded them as family."

She shook her head.

"Then I did something to her that I'm not proud of. And I blamed her for it. When I found this group? I didn't realize right away who you were. And once I did? I didn't want to believe that you would leave someone behind—just throw them out—but I knew you would. We've all done things we shouldn't be proud of," Michonne said. "It's time to put those things aside."

"We didn't mean to leave her," Maggie said. "We've explained that before. We had to save ourselves. Andrea's no saint. She was going to let Beth..."

"I've heard about that too," Michonne said, cutting Maggie off at the obviously uncomfortable squirming of Beth.

"I don't think that's all that safe to be around a child," Maggie said.

"I gave her a chance to make a decision," Andrea said. "I gave her a chance to decide she didn't want to die. I gave her the—I taught her that she wanted to fight."

"If she killed herself?" Maggie said. "She wouldn't be fighting anything."

"But now she knows," Andrea said. "She knows that she wants to live. She's not living because you want her to, she's living because she wants to."

Rick stood up.

"I think we're getting away from ourselves," he said. "I think we need to get back on track. Michonne, Andrea...you want respect? Fine. You've got it. You're family. You're part of the group. We're all working together. That's all that should be expected of anyone here. We all do what we have to do for the good of the group."

"And for the good of all the individuals within that group," Michonne said. "Within reason. The good of the group doesn't erase individuals, but it also doesn't allow anyone to be more important than anyone else. We take care of those who need it."

Rick stared at her, hard, but he finally gave her a barely there nod.

"Whatever you need? If we can provide it without putting people in danger? You've got it. The same as anyone else."

Michonne felt a strange relief. She ignored that it sounded like it was difficult for Rick to say that. She accepted it because, hard to say or not, it had been made as a declaration. And, waiting a minute, no one present in the group disputed it.

"We'll need things for the baby," Michonne said. "Hand me downs are fine—but a few things? A crib? I helped Judith get the one she's got and I'll help get whatever we need. I'll get it myself if I have to..."

"With or without your help," Rick said, "on a run? We'll find something."

Michonne nodded.

"Andrea's not going to be working," Michonne said. "At least, nothing really taxing."

"That's a rule," Daryl said. "Was there for Lori, is there for everyone. That's just a rule."

Michonne didn't know if it was the rule or not, but apparently Daryl thought it was and he was going to stand behind that belief. Rick looked at Daryl, but he didn't argue it.

Then Rick glanced toward where Maggie was sitting, hiding somewhat behind her "protective services".

"Any problems? Should be handled without fighting as much as we can," Rick said. "We've already fought too much in this group. It's time to stop. We've got to stand together."

He looked at Michonne like he was checking to see if she agreed with that and she nodded that she did.

"The Governor's coming," Michonne said. "We don't know when and we don't know how. But we know that we stand a better chance united than we do on our own."

Rick shifted his weight, nodded at that, and walked off in silence to, essentially, end the conversation, leaving them all to disperse.

For now? It was settled.


	37. Chapter 37

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol had darted after Daryl the moment that she'd been able to escape clean up duty from supper. He hadn't been hard to find. He'd told her that he was going out to walk the fences and that's where he was. He'd gone out to take over for Michonne and leave her with less than half the distance to cover so that she should go inside—where she should be—and handle things with Andrea.

Now, the fences checked and a few Walkers put down, Carol was standing with Daryl down near one of the barns that they'd erected to house animals that they'd brought in. He was fretting, silently for a moment, and puffing away at a cigarette. It was at least his second since she'd reached him, but she wasn't counting out loud. He was working through something and it wasn't likely that it would be cigarettes that did any of them in these days.

Carol simply stood, arms crossed across her chest to ward off the slightest hint of a chill to the air, and waited on Daryl. That's what she did. He was comfortable with it. And, just as she knew he would, he finally spoke.

"It's a fuckin' mess," he muttered.

Carol waited for clarification, but it didn't come.

"The baby?" She prompted, finally, seeing that he wasn't going to offer her more without a show that she wanted more.

Daryl hummed in the negative. Beyond the glow of the cigarette and some dark outline to his form, Carol could see nothing else of him. She could sense him—and she could sense his tension—but her vision wasn't going to give her anything to go on.

"They act that way because it's Andrea and Michonne, or because it's a kid?" Daryl asked.

Carol didn't know how to respond to that, so she didn't immediately say anything. Obviously, though, her input was entirely unnecessary because Daryl continued without it.

"Because—I was in there for a while," Daryl said. "They go on—Maggie goes on—mumbling and bitching about how we can't keep this kid safe if we hit the road. Like—we just gonna toss the damn kid and Lil' Asskicker both, right on to the Walkers, as we go out the damn gates."

Carol snorted.

"Maggie wasn't talking about Judith," Carol said. Daryl already knew that though.

"If it was me and you?" Daryl asked.

"It won't be me and you," Carol responded.

"Could be," Daryl said.

Carol wasn't going to argue. Sure. It could be. If all the factors that made it a guarantee that it wasn't going to be them weren't in place? It could be them.

"It's about the Governor," Carol said with a sigh. "It's about—Maggie never getting over what happened. Maggie..."

She dropped off.

"Maggie what?" Daryl asked, finally prompting her to continue.

"Maggie's looking to this prison like the rest of us are," Carol said. "It's somewhere safe. It's somewhere to spend the rest of our lives? Maybe? She and Glenn are young. They might want kids."

Daryl made a sound that Carol couldn't quite identify. Then he spoke again.

"We throw that one to the Walkers too?" He asked. He chuckled at his own statement. Carol laughed at it too, appreciating it for what it was, his words had practically dripped sarcasm. "If we hit the road—if we had to go? Reckon Michonne and Andrea could keep a kid safe as good as the rest of us."

Carol hummed.

"Maybe better," she said.

Daryl mumbled something of an apology at her. He thought, apparently, that he'd offended her. He hadn't. Carol was—or at least she felt like she was most of the time—beyond being offended over things.

"It'll pass," Carol said. "Maggie's just going to get over her mood. Beth too."

"Beth'll get over shit when Maggie does," Daryl said. "She ain't got no more opinion than that cow over there. Not if Maggie don't tell her to."

Carol chuckled.

"Not much more sense," Daryl added.

Carol clucked and scolded him for his comment, but she did find it amusing—for what it was worth.

"I don't condone violence," Carol said. "But next time? If there is one? It might be best to just—let Michonne finish. I mean, if it comes to that? Let her change Maggie's—tune, I guess?"

"Better not come to that," Daryl said. "If it was us? Wouldn't come to that."

Carol hummed and shifted her weight, content to wait for however long he wanted to be out there, and she never bothered to point out that she felt—somehow—it wouldn't happen the same way if it were them.

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Andrea sat on the edge of the cot with her face in her hands and Michonne hovered behind her, on her knees, and kneaded at Andrea's shoulders.

"I'm giving you five more minutes," Michonne said. "Then? No more. You're not letting any of them do this to you. You're not giving them that control."

She glanced around the cell. She wished that there was something, these days, to use to distract someone. Their lack of entertainment, though, left them with very little to do besides think and talk—both activities leading to too much dwelling.

"And you have to eat," Michonne pointed out, the untouched plate of food that Carol had brought to the cell being the only thing that she could pick up on as a possible way of distracting Andrea.

Andrea did lift her head out of her hands, at least, and Michonne stopped rubbing her shoulders to move around and sit beside her on the cot. She pretended that she didn't see the expression on Andrea's face for the moment.

"Food Maggie doesn't even think I should have," Andrea pointed out.

"Yeah...well," Michonne stammered. "Fuck Maggie," she said with a sigh.

Andrea laughed. Michonne smiled too, pleased that at least she could get some kind of amusement out of Andrea.

"That's the best you can come up with?" Andrea challenged. "As eloquent and well-spoken as you can be?"

Michonne hummed.

"I'm too tired to be either," she said. "And it's the most accurate wording for what I feel about Maggie Greene right now. Fuck her. Since I've been here? Since you've been here? Both of us have done twice the work that she's done. You're supposed to be taking it easy and you've—every day you do more than she does. And you complain about it less."

"So we're having a bitch session?" Andrea asked. "A tear into Maggie kind of bitch session."

Michonne sighed again.

"Is it making you feel better?" Michonne asked.

Andrea seemed to consider it.

"A little," she admitted.

"Then bitch away," Michonne said. She reached and grabbed the plate. She passed it to Andrea. "Just eat while you do it. Carol made it especially for you and picked out some of the good stuff for you."

Andrea curled her lip at the plate, but she did pick up the fork and start to eat from it.

"Maybe we should just leave, Mich," Andrea said.

"Hell will freeze over first," Michonne responded. She shook her head. "We're not leaving. You want to stay. I want to stay. We're working to make this place into something. We might leave—someday—but it won't be because of Maggie."

"Mich—what if he does come back?" Andrea asked. "What if he—hurts someone or kills someone?"

Michonne didn't need any clarification to know what the driving force behind the question was. She shook her head at Andrea.

"It isn't your fault if he does," Michonne said. "And—you've got to go ahead and come to terms with the fact that he's coming back. We don't know when and we don't know how, but we know he's coming back."

"We don't know that," Andrea said.

"If he's alive, he's coming back," Michonne amended quickly. "And if he comes back? He might kill someone. It might even be me or you. But no matter who he kills, if he kills anyone at all, it's not your fault. It's nobody's fault."

Andrea sighed now, but she seemed to be calming down from her earlier state.

"He doesn't even know you're here," Michonne pointed out. "Did you even think about that? Because I don't think anybody else has. He doesn't even know you're here. As far as he's concerned? You died in Woodbury, just like he planned for you to die."

"Except he went back and I wasn't there," Andrea said.

Michonne shrugged.

"So?" She said. "If you died, then you were a Walker. If you were a Walker? Then you got put down. You could've been buried there. We could've brought you back here and buried you. Where you're buried doesn't matter. The Governor thinks you're dead. You don't exist to him anymore. He's not worried about you. He doesn't even know the baby exists. We hardly know it exists. If he comes back here—and he will—then it won't be for you."

Andrea looked like she might argue, her lips parting just enough to make it seem that she'd offer some protest, and then she stopped. She seemed to think better of it. A slight hint of something like amusement made her lips curl into a small smile and she nodded her head as she turned her attention back to the food.

"He doesn't know about the baby," Andrea said. "But the baby's going to have to know about him because Maggie will tell the poor thing stories about him like he's the boogie man."

Michonne laughed at that because Andrea's tone was, for now, lighter.

"I think Daryl and I should go look for him again," Michonne said. "Once more. Before the cold weather? Maybe—he didn't go far. Maybe it won't be hard to find some sign of him."

Even Michonne didn't believe it. She knew that they weren't going to find him. They weren't going to just walk right out of the prison, stare at the ground for ten minutes, and then have Daryl lead them – with all the charming qualities of a bloodhound—right to where this man was sleeping, alone, on the hard ground somewhere so that they could finish his pathetic life with less drama than snubbing out a candle.

But she wanted to believe it because she had as much interest as anyone else in finding the man and keeping him from getting there.

"There's a lot to be done before the cold weather," Andrea pointed out. "All day, every day, we're talking about what needs to be done."

Michonne nodded her head gently at that. It was true. There was a lot to be done. They were in a desperate scramble to get everything prepared. It was the human equivalent of bears preparing to hibernate for the winter.

"But if you think you should go?" Andrea said. "If you think—that it's the best thing and there's a chance? Then you should go."

Michonne looked at her, almost surprised to hear that Andrea was giving her blessing on an expedition such as the one that Michonne had mentioned.

Andrea smiled at Michonne's expression and nodded her head.

"You should go," she confirmed. "We'll take care of the rest."

Michonne shook her head.

"The only thing you're taking care of is that plate of food," Michonne said. "It's not your job to get everything ready for the winter. You heard that today. It's decided. Whether I'm here or not, you're off duty from the hard work. It's not for you to worry about. None of this—really—is for you to worry about."

Andrea laughed.

"Except I'm still going to worry," she pointed out.

"I know that too," Michonne said. "I'll talk to Daryl in the morning. I'll get his opinion on things. If he says we go? We go."

"I know that too," Andrea said, echoing Michonne's earlier words. "Maybe I'll talk to someone about organizing a run? I could do that. Get things for the baby. Get other things we need for the winter. I could do a supply run."

Michonne didn't respond immediately. She might not like the idea, but it might not be worth the fight right this moment. In the end? She might not have to fight about it at all. Someone else might step in and point out all the obvious reasons this might not be something that was a very good idea. Maybe even Hershel would do it to make up for his daughters.

Regardless, it wasn't something they had to fight about tonight, and tonight? If Michonne could avoid fighting? That's what she was going to do.

"Finish eating," Michonne said. "I'm going to go shower. Then we'll call it a night."

She got up, without any more discussion, and gathered her things together to take a shower. She felt like she needed to wash this day away.


	38. Chapter 38

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I'm not sure how many people are reading this, but I wanted to make sure that everyone knows that there are two couples in this story, but they're monogamous couples. They're not going to "swap" or anything of the like. There will be friendships, fights, etc. but I'm not doing any kind of "group" sexual relationships. I promise you that, if I were to do that, I'd be sure to let you know far in advance, but I'm not going to do that. I just wanted to clear that up if anyone isn't sure.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"He has to stop somewhere for the cold," Michonne said. "He can't keep going, uncovered, once it gets cold. He'll die from exposure."

Daryl snorted.

"I know you're smart enough to know he ain't likely to die from the exposure of a Georgia winter," Daryl said.

It was true. Michonne did know that the Governor would probably live through the winter, even if he didn't have proper shelter. They all would, except for maybe Judith. It wouldn't be easy, and it wouldn't be pleasant, but it could be done.

And Daryl knew that she knew. She wasn't pulling the wool over his eyes or tricking him in any way. He was smarter than that.

"Listen," she said, "I'm going to be honest. I just feel like he's close by. I feel like he didn't go far. He's too wrapped up in wanting the prison. He's too wrapped up in wanting me and wanting revenge for everything he blames me for. We saw—even with Maggie? People don't let go of things any more today than they used to. Maggie's not even mad. He is. He's going to be far less likely to just move on. I just think—he'll come back, and he's not going far."

Daryl sucked his teeth and pretended, for at least three minutes, to have a truly vested interest in carefully picking the scraps out of the bucket, one by one, and throwing them to the pigs that were practically fighting over them as they hit the ground.

"He's comin'," Daryl said, without looking at Michonne. "He's coming and he's probably gonna do it just as soon as it thaws. He's gonna try to catch us with our pants down. But—you right. He's somewhere close. He didn't go far."

Michonne felt relief when she heard Daryl confirm her suspicions that the Governor was, more than likely, somewhere in their vicinity. It was a validation that she needed at the moment, even if she wouldn't tell him that. It was the confirmation that the gnawing feeling she had that the man was nearby was, if not more practical, at least as practical as it was emotional.

"I want to go look for him," Michonne said. "Once more. If he comes? And I know we didn't look after that first time? Really look? I'm going to feel guilty if anyone dies. And not just Andrea. Anyone."

Daryl straightened up, his bucket empty now, and put the bucket on the ground. He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped at his hands. When he looked at Michonne, though, he simply nodded as a response.

She sucked in her bottom lip to keep from smiling at him.

"We should look near nightfall," Michonne said. "Just when it's still light enough to see, but it's getting chilly. We can start looking while we're still here, but then we can go out if we need to."

"For fire?" Daryl asked. "Smoke?"

Michonne nodded again.

"It's getting cold," she said. "He's going to need to eat. He's going to want something to keep him warm. Wherever he is—inside or out? There's going to be a fire."

Daryl hummed.

"Tonight," he said. "I'll make sure I'm on watch before the sun goes down. I'll eat out here if I gotta. Start looking then for the fire. If he's around here and burning a fire? We'll know at least which way to head."

Michonne thanked him then, still hiding the urge to let Daryl know that part of her thanks simply came from the validation that he'd given her, probably without even knowing it, that she wasn't slipping back into the overwhelming paranoia that had taken over for her for some time.

"But 'Chonne?" Daryl said, as soon as he'd accepted her thanks. "We look for a day. Two tops. Once we leave the prison? If we don't see him? We move on."

Michonne nodded.

"You got it," she confirmed. "If we don't find him, we just wait for him to come to us. But—we keep our pants up."

Daryl chuckled at the joke, took his bucket, and walked off, signaling that for him the conversation was over. And it was over for Michonne too. They'd look again, this time with level heads all around. They'd either find him or they wouldn't, but at least she'd know that they'd done the best that they could do. Whatever happened after that? They'd simply be ready for it.

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"I think you're absolutely insane," Carol said, though there wasn't any malice to her voice. She hadn't even raised it above the low volume that she'd been using for the rest of their hushed conversation.

Andrea was cranking open cans with a manual can opener. It was one of the few cooking jobs that she really felt like she could do well. She wasn't as creative as Carol was. Once upon a time she could have cooked for a group like this, but that was back when she had recipe books and time to shop for a crowd. Now it was about taking what they had—which at times wasn't a very impressive selection of items—and turning it into something that could be stretched. Andrea was sure she'd fail at it entirely. Carol, though, seemed more than able to handle the task.

"I'm not insane," Andrea said. "It's really...I think it's a good idea."

Carol hummed and shook her head.

"Things happen on runs," she said. "You have to run, you have to fight...you don't know what you'll run into. I don't think you should go."

"I'm not going to sit on my hands while everyone else does everything to get ready for the winter," Andrea said. "I can't, Carol. Even if I wanted to? I'd die. The guilt of just—sitting here? It would eat me alive faster than any Walker could."

Carol gave Andrea a look that said she didn't appreciate the comparison at all. Andrea smiled softly at her as her only response.

"Maggie and Glenn like going on runs," Carol said. "They like them and they're good at them. I feel like—I feel like we all do what we can do. Some of us are better at some things than we are at others. We do what we can do and what we're good at. Put our strengths in the places where they really come through, you know? Everything gets done, then, and it gets done by someone who knows what they're doing."

Andrea appreciated Carol's genuine concern for her welfare, and she understood what Carol was saying, but she also felt like she wasn't going to be swayed on this. Michonne had tried to tell her not to suggest going on a run, but she hadn't listened to her either.

"I'm not good at anything in particular," Andrea said.

Carol opened her mouth to protest and Andrea spoke again before the woman even had the opportunity to form a single word in response.

"I'm not saying that for you to argue with me," Andrea said. "I'm saying it because it's true. I can hold my own here or there, but there's nothing that I really bring to the group that anyone would miss. I want to go on this run to feel like I'm doing something. I know that I'm not going to be contributing as much when some time has passed. I want to do what I can, while I can still—run, fight Walkers...whatever."

Carol sighed and shook her head in the same way that she might if she were Andrea's mother and Andrea was suggesting some trip to Mardi Gras to collect as many beads as was humanly possible in the span of a few hours.

Then Carol's expression changed.

"What about Maggie?" She asked. "I don't think it's a great idea right now. Not until she's had a little time to cool down about everything."

Andrea smiled to herself, but she knew that Carol saw the smile too.

"I'm aware of Maggie," Andrea said.

"I didn't say you weren't," Carol responded.

Andrea sucked in a breath and considered her words. She passed the last of the cans she was opening to Carol and then she shifted around so that she was facing her.

"You and I both know that Maggie's—upset about what happened," Andrea said. "And—she has every right to be. I don't like what the Governor did to her. She didn't deserve that. Nobody does."

"But that doesn't excuse her behavior," Carol said.

Andrea shook her head.

"But—if I go on this run?" Andrea said, raising her eyebrows at Carol, "And something happens? Then Maggie sees that she's not that mad at me. It's not me that she—hates or whatever. It's him. It isn't me. And if something were to happen? If I was in danger? Maggie would realize that. She'd realize that she's mad at him, and I'm not him."

Carol's face changed entirely now. It was almost humorous to Andrea because it looked like Carol couldn't quite decide if she was amused or if she was horrified by the suggestion that Andrea was making.

"You would not do something stupid," Carol finally stammered out.

Andrea started shaking her head, even though she was allowing Carol to finish speaking.

"You would not do something stupid to put yourself in a bad situation!" Carol said, this time with more force behind her words than she'd employed at any other point.

Andrea held her hand up, then, to stop Carol before she got any farther into the clearly horrible scene that she was creating in her mind.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid," Andrea assured her. "And I'll have a knife on me. I'm not talking about really being in serious danger. I'm just talking about making Maggie think it's something dangerous. Just enough to—to trigger something in Maggie."

Carol smirked now.

"Reverse psychology?" Carol asked.

Andrea smiled.

"Something like that," Andrea said. "It might work. It worked for Beth. Maybe it'll work with her sister, just in a different type of situation."

Carol sucked in a breath and visibly held it for a moment while she thought about the proposal that Andrea was making about the run.

"I think it's—I don't want to say a good idea," Carol said. "It could work. But—I don't like the idea of you putting yourself in a situation where things could go bad. Even if you're armed, you know that things can get out of hand quickly. Things have a way of just going bad."

Andrea nodded.

"But it's a chance I have to take," Andrea said. "At least—whether it works or it doesn't? I'll know where we stand. Besides, I'm faster now than I used to be. Michonne—she's taught me a lot. We had to survive out there, and it was different than being in a group. You had to be on all the time."

"It's just that—things happen," Carol reiterated.

Andrea laughed to herself, ironically more than out of any genuine feeling of humor.

"The worst that could happen is they just leave me there," Andrea suggested. "And—if they do? I'll be back. I'll just—make my way back."

Carol frowned at her.

"If they left you, and they aren't, but if they did? We'd come for you," Carol said. "Michonne? I would come."

Andrea shook her head and reached a hand out, touching Carol's arm. Carol's eyes followed to look at where Andrea's hand was resting and she moved her own hand to cover Andrea's. She squeezed her fingers around Andrea's hand for a brief second and then she patted it.

"Just don't do anything stupid," Carol said.

Andrea smiled at her.

"I'm glad I have your blessing," she said, raising her eyebrows at the woman once more.

Carol made a noise at her, dismissing the comment, but she did smile.

"It's not a terrible plan," Carol said softly before she turned her attention back to making some kind of magic meal that would feed them all with their scanty provisions.


	39. Chapter 39

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"This is possibly the stupidest thing that you've ever done!" Michonne asserted. "And I'm including everything with the Governor in that."

Andrea nodded her head and continued to lace her boots while Michonne paced the very tight distance between one cell wall and the other, just in front of the door. Andrea suspected that her entire goal might be to keep her from actually getting out of the door, but she wasn't positive yet.

"Mich, it's a run," Andrea said. "It's—going to get supplies. It's not dangerous. Well—it's not very dangerous. I used to do runs with Glenn all the time."

Michonne stopped pacing for just a second, as though she was too overcome for the time being to continue it and muddle through her thoughts, but immediately she kicked back into action. Andrea figured that, given the short distance she could travel in either direction before she had to turn around, Michonne would make herself dizzy soon.

"Runs with Glenn," Michonne said. "Runs like the one where you almost got killed in a department store?"

"We all got out of that one," Andrea said. "And it was really more Merle's fault than anything...if you're laying blame."

Continued pacing. Andrea moved to the other boot.

The plan was that Michonne, bag already packed and in the corridor just outside the cell, was going with Daryl to look for the Governor again. Andrea suspected, as did Carol and a few others, that they wouldn't find him. He didn't want to be found. They'd seen smoke, though, so they assumed it meant camp. Either they'd find him, they'd find someone else, or they'd find an abandoned camp that could have belonged to any number of people.

Andrea and Michonne knew well that they weren't the only people out there. If Andrea remembered correctly, they also knew that there were some people you simply didn't want to find.

Maybe the Governor was one of those people.

"Runs with the same Glenn that was part of the group that left you alone out there? They left you to die, Andrea," Michonne said.

Andrea finished the boot and stood up. She started looking for a shirt. To make her pants fit, she'd had to employ a trick that Carol helped her with, involving an elastic hair tie, but they were on and she wasn't trying to win any best dressed awards for the day.

"They all left me to die," Andrea said. "Carol and Daryl too, if I remember correctly. You left me alone with the Governor. Are we going somewhere with this?"

Andrea found a shirt that she was pretty certain would fit and pulled it over her head. Michonne had stopped pacing now and was looking at her with an expression that Andrea had seen before. It was the closest to disbelief that Michonne came.

"Maggie would cut your throat right now if she thought it would make the Governor go away," Michonne said.

Andrea swallowed.

"And if she did?" Andrea said. "He'd still be out there. And he'd still come. You said it yourself. He doesn't even know I'm alive."

"He's still out there," Michonne said. "What if Daryl and I don't find him? What if you do? What if he figures out you're not dead? You think they'll save you? They'll save themselves. They'll leave you behind."

Andrea swallowed. It wasn't easy. For the moment there was some emotion lodged in her throat and it didn't move easily when she tried to force saliva past it.

"You're going after a man that—Mich...he was burning your name into my skin," Andrea said. "He was branding me with your name. So that when you found me? And he was going to make sure that you did? You'd—I don't know. You'd see it? Along with everything else. And you're—going after him."

"I'm going after him because I'm trying to give us a chance," Michonne said. "I'm going after him because I'm trying to give you a chance. I'm doing it for us. For everyone. But especially for us. You? You're doing it for pride."

Andrea ignored the labored feeling behind her breathing. It was partially true. Pride wasn't her only motivator, but it was certainly one of them. It was certainly something of a driving force behind her decision to go out on the run.

"I'm doing it for us too," Andrea said. "I'm doing it for us. Because—if he doesn't kill us? Mich—we're all living a long time together. And if this can change, even a little bit, how people feel? If it can make them not feel like I'm just—draining to them? Or make Maggie realize that she doesn't hate me for what he did? Then it's going to make it a lot better for us here. I'm doing this for us too."

Andrea shook her head at Michonne.

"And it's not as brave and it's not as noble as what you're doing, but—I've never been as brave or as noble as you are," Andrea said. "I can't keep up with you. Remember?"

Michonne backed up a step as she reached her hand out and she fit her body into the doorway of the cell. It was clear now that she intended to make a blockade if that's what she had to do. She wrapped a hand around one of the bars on either side of the cell. Next to her hand, where it had hung before, hung the proof that she'd come back from her search. She'd hung it that morning, just after she'd put her bag outside the cell.

Michonne shook her head at Andrea.

"I don't want you to go," Michonne said.

Andrea shook her head back at Michonne in response.

"And I don't want you to go," she said. "But you're going anyway, aren't you?"

Michonne didn't respond. She just stood there like the brick wall that she could make herself into. Andrea moved to rifle through her things and she came out with a handkerchief that was similar to the one she'd already used to tie her hair back so that it wouldn't get in her face and would be less likely to be grabbed by Walkers if they got in too close.

She crossed the cell and tied it around the bar, just above Michonne's, so that it dropped down against the marker that Michonne had left there. Then she squared herself off and stood in front of Michonne.

"You're going anyway," Andrea said. "And so am I."

Michonne didn't budge in the slightest and, for the moment, Andrea didn't try to move her.

"What about the baby?" Michonne asked. "You said—didn't you say that you wanted the baby?"

"If it's meant to be," Andrea said, "then yes, I do."

Michonne cocked her head to the side, still keeping her eyes firmly on Andrea's. The way she looked at her could be intimidating, but Andrea had set herself not to back down this time and she fully intended not to.

"You, Andrea, are the first line of defense for the baby," Michonne said. "I can protect you. Carol can protect you. Daryl. Hershel can take care of you. But you? You're the first line of defense. You're the one that—if you don't eat? Baby doesn't eat. You don't—drink water? You deprive the baby of things that it needs. You go out there and get hurt?"

Andrea shook her head at Michonne.

"Stop," Andrea said. She held her hand up. "Stop right there. You don't want to say anything else. You and I both know that—accidents happen. You know that you can't protect anyone all the time. But if you put that on me? Right now? If you put that on me and something happens?"

Andrea sucked in a breath and shook her head at Michonne again.

"Is that what you want me to carry? If something happens? You want me to carry that it was all my fault? That I—could've prevented it, whatever it was? That—it's all—it's all my fault?"

Michonne didn't let go of her hold on the bars, but her shoulders slumped slightly as her muscles relaxed. Her facial expression changed too, like the one that she'd been trying to put on was melting off. She frowned, this time like she was trying to swallow around her own newly developed tumor.

She shook her head.

"No," she said. "No. No. That isn't—it isn't all your fault. It wouldn't be all your fault," she added quickly, amending what she was saying. "I just—don't want you to go out there. I don't think you should and I don't think it's safe. I want you to stay here."

"Right where you know where I am?" Andrea asked.

"Right where I know you're safe," Michonne said. "As safe as you can be. You're safer here than you'd be out there."

Andrea started to protest, but Michonne—still somewhat hanging between the bars of the door—interrupted her.

"It's supposed to be my baby too?" Michonne asked. "That's what you said, right? That's what—we said? We'd raise it between us. Our child. Mine and yours. That's what you said."

Andrea pursed her lips, but she had to nod. That's what they'd agreed upon. That was the best way to help Michonne start to put some of the things behind them that had happened. It was, Andrea thought, the best way to help her feel any sort of bond with the child—a child that Andrea, admittedly, hadn't bonded with at all yet.

"Then stay here," Michonne said. "Stay here because I don't want you taking yourself, and my baby, out there. Stay here because I'm asking you to do it for me."

Andrea opened her mouth once more to protest, but was interrupted again.

"I'm not telling you," Michonne said. "I can't tell you what to do. I'm asking you to do this for me. I'm giving you my reasons why. I'm telling you what you want. I'm telling you why I feel the way that I feel. Stay here. Stay here, be safe, and you and the baby? Both of you? Be waiting on me when I get back."

"I can't just not do anything," Andrea said.

"If it's that damn important to you to go on a run, I'll take you myself," Michonne said, this time her voice coming out harder than before. "You and me. The way it should be. The way it was. But don't go on this one."

"If I back out now, what are they going to say?" Andrea said.

"That you're not as dumb as they thought you were," Michonne shot back. "I don't give a damn what anybody says. Let them say it. Maggie will come around. She's scared. Fear makes people act in horrible, horrible ways."

Andrea wanted to go on the run. She wanted to do something—anything—to prove that she wasn't just some kind of drain on the whole group, but she also wanted to do this for Michonne. Michonne was asking with absolute sincerity. She was giving Andrea what Andrea had asked her for time and time again—a reason, an explanation, some kind of words to back up her commands instead of just throwing them out like a drill sergeant.

And it was the first sign that Michonne really felt like there was a chance they could get over everything that had happened to the Governor and have some kind of life with the baby that Andrea couldn't even really believe was real yet.

Andrea sighed and reached, untying the handkerchief that she'd just hung on the bar. She looked at it, and then she turned and returned it to her things. When she turned back, Michonne was still standing with each hand on a bar. Her expression, though, looked a lot softer.

"Are you happy?" Andrea asked.

A smile. A genuine smile. Michonne rocked, ever so slightly, swinging just a little in her place.

"Thank you," she said. Her smile broadened. "I'll bring you something back—if I can."

Andrea walked forward and wrapped her arms around Michonne in the position that she was in. Michonne didn't move for a moment, but then she finally released the bars, confident Andrea wasn't going to make a break for it, and wrapped her arms around Andrea too.

"Just bring yourself back," Andrea said with a sigh. "Don't do anything stupid and come back."

"Always do," Michonne said. "Sooner or later. I came and got you in Woodbury, didn't I?"

Andrea laughed to herself and moved a hand to pinch Michonne's side. Michonne jumped, but she laughed too.

"What were you going to do, Mich?" Andrea asked.

Michonne hummed in question, holding Andrea tight to her for the moment.

"If I'd tried to get past you," Andrea said. "What were you going to do? Tackle me?"

Michonne laughed quietly.

"I hadn't thought that far," Michonne said. "But—I'm not against tackling you to the ground to save you from yourself. Not if that's what I have to do."


	40. Chapter 40

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl knew the exact moment when, panting from their attempts to travel as fast as they could and maybe their get their hands on the Governor even as he fled their approach, he and Michonne hit the end of the line.

They'd found a camp where the ashes were cold, but they hadn't been long left there to be scattered by the cooling breeze that was blowing. Following from that camp to the next had taken little effort. A side trip to a house that had clearly been scavenged showed them he was living on the run. He was moving from one place to another, getting just enough to get by, and then he was moving on. He was dancing all around them. Unless he was some kind of master at disguising his steps? He was still alone.

Another camp and the ashes were still warm to the touch. He'd cooked something and moved on, but he probably hadn't gone far. It was like he was taunting them. It was like he was aware of their presence. Maybe he wasn't aware of it, though. Maybe he was just aware that he needed to be vigilant.

They hadn't stopped for anything. They'd drank while they'd moved and they'd skipped eating. They'd gone from dawn to almost dusk chasing the tracks that he didn't bother to cover. When they'd reached the chain fence, it had been cut all the way down. They slipped through the same hole that he'd made to pass through with Daryl holding the jagged metal for Michonne and her holding it for him. They'd crossed a fenced off drainage ditch the same way that he probably had, slopping through the mud in the bottom of it that was stagnant and left there from rain and hardly anything more. Up the other side they'd found the cut in the second fence and worked their way through it the same way he had. He'd been less lucky than them. There were threads on the metal, possibly bloodied if they'd known the colors of what he was wearing. The fence had scratched him at least.

But slipping through that one and going on? They'd reached the end of the line. The drainage ditch they'd found was outside of a small town. One of those outskirts Georgia towns that hung out like a ghost town—established in the forties or fifties. Built, more than likely, by people too poor to reach a larger location. It looked like something from a pop up picture book. Main square necessities—a post office, some scattered stores to cover most immediate needs, a bank. There were some newer stores that were established there too, some small mom and pop businesses that had sprung up to cover things that the more general stores didn't cover. A doctor's office and a lawyer's office. A realty office that probably worked mostly in getting people into their shiny new double wides or into the homes that made up the small town.

It wasn't much to look at, but it was enough that there'd be no tracking the man through here.

A glance at Michonne told Daryl that she knew it too. She looked around, her chest heaving from their exertion and the wave of emotion that had struck her the moment she'd realized that it was a strong case of game over. Then she looked at Daryl and she waited. She waited for him to tell her something that he couldn't. She waited for him to tell her that she was wrong and that they would go on from here and they'd find the man.

But he couldn't say that, so he shook his head. It said it all without having to worry with the words.

Michonne did something then that startled him. He wasn't expecting it at all. Her shoulders slumped with the defeat of the moment and she pulled her katana. She walked forward from where they were like she might be considering going to the realty office to look at available properties in the area—of which there were more now than there'd probably ever been before. There were a few stray Walkers ambling about, barely even seeming to notice them yet, and Daryl assumed she was going to take some of her frustration out on them.

Instead, she stopped her steps, just before she even reached the one Walker that Daryl thought she was going after. It noticed her, turned it's nasty face toward her, and growled before steering slow steps in her direction—Daryl could smell him from here. The putrid asshole had been dead so long that a good wind might turn him into a nasty puddle on the sidewalk.

Michonne let out a cry that made Daryl jump and dropped the Walker before he could even make a full step. Then she screamed again, ringing the dinner bell for any of the other Walkers around them. Daryl pulled his knife and figured that dropping them by hand would be more effective than even bothering with the crossbow at this point.

"Where are you?!" Michonne screamed. "You want me? I'm right here! Come and get me you asshole! Come and get me, you coward!"

Daryl left her to have the breakdown that she seemed to need for the moment. In her voice he could hear the frustration and the anger. He could hear the hurt and the exhaustion. He could hear every emotion that every one of them had almost drowned in at one point or another. It had driven him to sit in a field and cry over the body of a brother that would never be what he wanted him to be—a brother who had, apparently trying to become just that, had lost his life at what might have been his peak.

It had left some of them to lose their minds, to show their fangs to those around them that they supposedly cared for, and it had left many of them to hide and to cry when they thought that nobody could see them.

The guard tower, after all, was good for things besides keeping watch and stealing a few quiet moments for uninterrupted sex.

Michonne slashed at a few Walkers, even in the midst of her fit, and Daryl took down a few himself. It wasn't long before it seemed that they'd dropped every single one around because Michonne's continued insistence that the Governor show himself, and try to take what he was so keen on having, didn't do a thing to bring any more dead toward them.

But it also wasn't doing a thing to bring the Governor.

"Michonne!" Daryl barked, finally. Her angry screams were starting to give way to sobs—sobs that she'd be embarrassed about when she got control of herself if he knew Michonne at all—and it was time to pull in the reins on her and get her back under control. "Michonne!" He barked again.

She turned to him, then. It was the first time, since they'd found Andrea, that he'd seen her face twisted up with so much emotion. He hadn't expected it when she'd lovingly caressed what they thought, at least for a moment, to be Andrea's corpse, and he hadn't expected it now.

He wasn't a fool, though, and he knew that both of the events had one thing in common.

Michonne had, like the rest of them, lost every damn thing she'd ever had—pride included. Now she had the one thing that she wasn't willing to lose and it the most terrifying thing that she could face was the possibility of losing just that.

Daryl understood because he had the same kind of thing. But this? It wasn't going to save them from anything.

He shook his head at her again. He kept shaking it. The action of shaking it at her seemed to be communicating a great deal to her in the moment. It seemed to be doing something to bring her back to the here and now. Her face started to return to what he considered her normal expression. Her breathing, still labored, started to slow enough that it didn't look like she was struggling to even hold onto life. Her body visibly relaxed and sagged slightly under the new found exhaustion of the moment.

She'd spent herself. She was done. If he wanted to take care of either of them, the first thing that he needed to do was find them shelter and food. Michonne would just be barely dragging herself back to the prison if she turned back now.

Once she'd visibly calmed a little, Daryl gnawed at his lip and tried to figure out what to say. He had to say something. He had to lure her away from where she was now—physically and mentally.

"He's a coward," Daryl said. "You got it right. He's a fucking coward. He come here because of that. He wants you. He wants all of us, but he don't want to meet none of us head on. Like a snake. He wants to catch you when you ain't looking. He wants to catch you when you don't expect it. He'da never done to Andrea what the hell he done to her if he didn't overpower her first. If he didn't chain her ass up first. He'da never done what he done to Maggie and Glenn if he didn't have more power than them and he didn't have more damn people. Never woulda killed Merle if he weren't outnumbered and he didn't catch his ass not paying attention."

Daryl stopped. Until he'd started saying it, he hadn't thought it all through. He knew it, of course, but he hadn't really thought about it.

He shook his head at Michonne again. She was clearly calmer now, but distraught. The heaving was done. The sobbing was over. Her brow was furrowed with desperation, though.

"He's a coward," Daryl repeated. "And he don't wanna meet me nor you out here. Not on no equal ground. He ain't coming out and he ain't getting caught. We'll see him—because we'll be ready—but it ain't gonna be because he wanted us to see him. Not until he gets off the first shot at least."

"He wants me dead," Michonne said. "I put his daughter down. He was sick and he believes—he believed—that they're still alive. He believed that—they could bring them back."

She sighed.

"He believed what the hell everyone wants to believe," Michonne said.

"But he went fucking insane about believing it," Daryl said. "I ain't saying he don't got a right to be crazy. Hell—we all got a right to be crazy right about now. But there's a different in being crazy and thinking that your crazy makes it alright for you to go around doing whatever the hell you want."

"I'm not defending him," Michonne said.

"I know you're not," Daryl responded.

"He wants me," Michonne said. "And I want him to come for me. Leave everyone else alone. Come for me. This is just between us."

Daryl shook his head.

"Not anymore, it ain't," Daryl said. "Now? He wants all of us. And he'll come. Like a damn coward, he'll come. But not until he thinks he's got the damn upper hand."

He cleared his throat. He'd been thinking about it since they found the first camp. He'd been thinking about it since he realized that the Governor was still alone. He hadn't regrouped. He hadn't found anyone that would follow him. He hadn't made a new place for himself yet. He wouldn't make a move until he had a place. He wouldn't make a move without security of some sort.

Daryl shook his head at her again.

"He ain't coming no time soon," Daryl said. "Not now. Not until he's got something. He ain't got shit right now. He ain't coming."

Michonne's face fell and she turned it away from him. She pretended to have some vested interest in some Walkers that were just appearing at the end of the street near them. They'd heard her screaming, more than likely, but were so rotted that it was taking them a decent amount of time to make their way to her. Daryl knew she had no real interest in them because they were hardly to be classified as a threat.

"Tonight? We find somewhere to sleep," Daryl said. "Get some food. Hole up for the night. Tomorrow? We go back to the prison."

"And we wait for him to show up and kill someone," Michonne said.

"We're as ready as we can be there," Daryl said. "We take measures to get ready for the cold. We get ready for him too. We be as ready for him as we can. But there ain't no more that we can do. Done this shit twice. Come as close as we ever come to getting him today. We ain't gonna get him. We go home. We live. And when he comes, we kill him and keep on living."

"I should've killed him when I had the chance," Michonne said. "There was a time—if I'd just...knocked Andrea out of the way. I wouldn't have had to kill her. I could've just—disarmed her. I could've killed him and this whole thing..."

"I coulda killed him too," Daryl said. "Merle coulda killed him. Andrea coulda killed him. Hell—Maggie...Rick...we coulda killed him. We didn't. But we will."

"I..." Michonne started.

"Put the damn world down, Hercules!" Daryl barked.

She stopped and stared at him. She raised her eyebrows in shock.

"It ain't just your fight," Daryl said. "Come on—while we here, we might as well get what we can get. Make this damn trip more'n just a waste of our time and energy."

To show he was done indulging her pity party, Daryl started toward the buildings to walk among them and see what stores there were and what they might have to offer. This town, if it could be called that, appeared to have been looted, but there was no telling what it might still have to offer. It all depended on when it had been looted.

He glanced back once over his shoulder and saw her coming, dragging her feet as she did, and he turned back to watch where he was going and take care of a partially decomposed Walker that had gotten itself somewhat impaled on what had once been a type of decorative post and hanger.

The Governor was out there, and he might be watching them even now, but the coward wasn't coming out of hiding. Not for a while now.


	41. Chapter 41

**AN: Here we are, another chapter.**

 **A nod to Hanna for conversations that we've had before that played into this chapter a little. ;-)**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"There's something," Carol said. "You're just not paying attention."

"I am paying attention!" Andrea shot back, with far more defense than was probably necessary in the moment.

In an effort to distract her from the fact that she was feeling somewhat down in the dumps and "useless" and everything else—feelings that Carol could relate to, though for very different reasons—Carol had taken Andrea with her on a side project at the prison. One of their efforts to ready themselves for the winter and to also safe guard against the Governor's possible return, was to try to clear out the back part of the prison yard. The fences back there were in need of repair and the only way that anyone was going to be able to repair them was if they could get to them. The Walkers that might bother them were fenced into another "section" of the fences, so they were of little concern at the moment, but the area needed to be cleared of broken bricks and debris that were left behind from some kind of disaster that had apparently happened in the early days and crumbled a part of the prison.

Andrea was filling the wheelbarrow with Carol and then she was responsible for walking the fence line in they were using to get out, clearing the Walkers off of it, and then distracting them while Carol uncorded the fence and got the debris outside of it.

If anyone had realized what they were doing—and by anyone Carol mostly thought of Daryl and Michonne who were absent at the moment—they'd have likely run them both back around to the front of the prison. But for now? There was no one to tell them that they couldn't work on the project and make progress that nobody else was making.

They were both being extremely useful—even if a little reckless.

However, as part of her distraction technique, Carol had accidentally begun a conversation that was possibly creating more stress than she'd ever meant for it to cause. She'd assumed that Andrea was far enough along to feel her baby moving—and she would still bet that she was—but Andrea was insisting that she felt nothing.

And this was causing her to get a little more stirred up than she really needed to be.

In trying to save the whole thing, Carol was trying to reason with Andrea that, more than likely, she was feeling the little movements of the baby, but she wasn't aware of what she was feeling. She wasn't paying attention and she wasn't entirely sure what she should she be paying attention to.

"Maybe you just aren't—noticing it," Carol said.

"You don't think that I'd—notice? If something was moving around in there I'd be the first to notice," Andrea said. She stopped a moment in her loading to take off the gloves she was wearing—oversized like Carol's—drop them on the ground where she was standing, and swipe at the sweat on her face.

"You would be the first to notice," Carol said. "That's the point. It's too early for anyone else to notice. It'd just be you that would notice it. And you haven't noticed it yet."

"I haven't noticed it because it's not happening," Andrea said. "I'm telling you. It's just not there. There's no kicking or moving or anything. I can't button my pants—so I either wear the dresses or I just leave them unbuttoned, but there's nothing going on in there."

Carol laughed to herself.

"There's plenty going on in there," Carol declared. "I remember—when I was pregnant with Sophia? Everyone just got to this point where they were all like oh can you feel the baby? Is the baby kicking yet?"

"I know the feeling," Andrea interrupted.

Carol hummed in response.

"And I couldn't," Carol said. "I wanted to. I'd lie down, like they told me to, and I'd close my eyes and—hold my breath. And nothing. I finally started lying to them and telling them that oh yeah she was kicking all over the place."

"So?" Andrea asked.

Carol raised her eyebrows at her in question and went to get one of the water bottles that she'd tucked into the shade for them. She came back, took a few drinks from it, and then offered the bottle to Andrea.

"So what happened?" Andrea asked. "There's more to the story than that, isn't there? Because, Carol? No offense, but that's a pretty bad story."

Carol laughed to herself and shook her head.

"There isn't much more than that," Carol admitted. "I asked my doctor about it and, of course, he checked everything. She was fine. She was moving. I just didn't realize it until it was—stronger. And then I realized that like all these feelings I'd been thinking were...you know...gas? Just twitches and all? It was Sophia, all along."

Andrea stood there with an expression on her face that Carol wished she could absolutely just wipe off. In her effort to distract Andrea and make the day pass quickly, she'd never intended to create a very clear anxiety to keep her occupied. She was frozen into her spot this moment, not even drinking the water that she was holding.

"It's fine," Carol asserted. "I'm sure of it."

Andrea looked like she might be sick. So far, she'd seemed not to be plagued by morning sickness at all. She'd seemed to almost skip that part entirely. But right now? She looked like she was deciding where the best location might be to part company with her breakfast.

Carol moved and put an arm around her, pulling Andrea into a sideways hug.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Carol said, honestly. "I just thought it might be good for you to talk about the baby. I thought it could be something you could—chat about. It was just small talk. Chatter."

Andrea shook her head. She pulled away from Carol, though not violently, and continued to shake her head. She found, for herself, a seat on a pile of bricks and sat there with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands for a moment.

"What if it's not OK?" She asked after a moment of studying the ground between her feet with intensity. "What if there's something wrong? What if—"

Andrea looked at Carol with nothing less than horror on her face.

"What if the baby is dead, Carol? What if—it would turn...what if it turned? Carol..." Andrea's voice was starting to pick up panic. It was understandable, of course. If Carol were harboring a Walker inside her body she'd be at least a little on edge herself, but she couldn't very well believe that was the case.

She shook her head and crossed the short distance between them to put a hand on Andrea's shoulder just as Andrea gagged at the ground that she'd been staring at before. It wasn't fruitful, but it started a chain of gagging. Carol rubbed her hand around Andrea's back and took the water bottle from her to keep her from worrying with it until she could actually drink from it again.

"See? This is probably why I didn't have a lot of friends before this," Carol said.

Andrea didn't laugh because, at the moment, she was too far gone to be brought back with jokes.

"Andrea, the baby is not dead," Carol said. "It's not dead and it's not a Walker. If something happened? Your body would know that you needed to get rid of the baby and it would do just that. Besides—at this point? It would be a pitiful Walker. It wouldn't be dangerous to anyone. Not even you. I doubt—it even has fingernails."

Andrea retched again and Carol bit her lip. She was really failing at this, but she couldn't just walk away and leave the conversation as it was. It wasn't fair to leave Andrea, in this condition, to deal with it on her own. However, she also couldn't figure out how to talk her way out of it without simply continuing to make things worse.

"What if—"Andrea started, her speech interrupted by the gagging she didn't have completely under control yet. "What if—my body thinks it's alive? Because it's a Walker...moving around? What if...it's just growing because I'm feeding it...it's sucking everything out of me but it's just a fat...parasitic...Walker?"

Carol snorted and immediately apologized for it. She continued circling her hand around Andrea's back because the touch seemed to be more therapeutic at the moment than anything she could manage to say to try to back track out of the mess that she'd created.

"Your baby is not a parasitic Walker, fat or thin," Carol said. "I don't think that's the way it works. I think your body is still smart enough to know the difference between a thriving and very alive baby and a Walker."

"Your body doesn't know it's not supposed to walk around and eat people after it's dead," Andrea argued back. "Not anymore."

"Look at it this way," Carol said. "If it were a Walker, it would be moving around. And you would feel it. But you don't—so we know it's not a Walker."

Andrea looked at Carol then. The sick appearance was a little lessened on her face, though she did look a good deal sweatier and red than she had when she'd sat down. Carol offered her the bottle of water.

"Be careful," she said. "Sip it slowly."

Andrea obeyed. After a few sips of water, though, clearly not having abandoned this train of thought at all, she brought up another point to Carol.

"What if it's a Walker and it's not moving around because it can't hear anything and it can't see anything?" Andrea said. "It's eating constantly. So it's not hungry."

Carol sighed.

"Then it's a content and non-threatening Walker and we'll deal with it," Carol said.

Andrea's tone was lighter now, so Carol wasn't quite as concerned. For the moment, she could sit and bounce back thoughts brought on by a bought of anxiety and a slightly over active imagination left to run wild with a new world full of possibilities that she hadn't had to think about when she'd been pregnant. And with as much as anxiety as she'd had when she was pregnant? She was grateful that she hadn't had all this to think about.

"When it moves," Andrea said, "I won't know if it's baby I'm feeling or Walker. You know that, right?"

"It won't keep growing if it's a Walker," Carol said. "If it stops growing, but it keeps moving? We'll get concerned."

"It'll keep getting fatter," Andrea said. "Until it..."

But she didn't finish. She handed the bottle of water back to Carol and got to her feet, gulping down some air for whatever the next round of horrifying thoughts were that had crossed her mind.

"If you're worried," Carol said, "then go and talk to Hershel. We'll break from this today. It hasn't gone anywhere since we got to the prison, and it isn't going anywhere by tomorrow."

"What's he going to say, Carol?" Andrea asked. "Everything looks OK. He'll know more later."

"Sometimes?" Carol offered. "Just hearing everything looks OK makes you feel a lot better. Andrea—soon? Very, very soon? You're going to be pretty sure of what's going on and you're not going to have to worry as much about this. You'll still worry, but it won't be the same kind of worry. You'll start worrying about other things. Like can your body really stretch that much and what'll the birth be like. And soon? Those worries will go away and you'll worry about other things. Like—are you making enough milk for the baby? Will you ever sleep again? Is your newborn normal? And they'll just keep changing into something different. They'll be different worries, but the worries are always there. Always...always there."

Andrea stared at her, but she appeared to have calmed again.

Carol smiled at her.

"Welcome to the rocky road of motherhood," Carol said. "You'll—never run out of things to worry about. At least—I hope you never do. Because the moment you stop having things to worry about?"

She shook her head.

"That's a terrible, terrible moment," Carol said. "And then? The worries go away, but the regrets? They come."

Andrea's shoulders slumped and she came forward, collecting Carol into a hug before Carol could even protest. For a moment, Carol returned the affection feeling that they both could get something from it at the moment—even if it was comfort of a very different type for each of them. When she finally pulled out of it, she squeezed Andrea's arm.

"Go talk to Hershel," Carol said. "You'll feel better. I need to start something to eat for all of us—and for parasitic Walker baby."

Andrea made a face at her, but she did laugh and shake her head when Carol couldn't keep from being amused at her own joke.

"Really," Carol insisted. "It's fine, but you'll believe him more than me. Go talk to Hershel. We'll finish this mess another day."


	42. Chapter 42

Michonne felt more exhausted by the trip back to the prison than she'd felt by the day they'd spent chasing the Governor. The exhaustion wasn't owing, honestly, to the time spent on foot or the amount of ground that they covered. It was caused by the disappointment of knowing that they didn't accomplish what they'd gone for. The Governor was still out there.

He was weakened. He was alone. He could potentially die from a number of things that he would think himself immune to. But he was still out there.

Michonne felt deflated for it, too. She wanted him dead. Now? They'd likely wait out the winter, spending every day wondering if he'd show up or he'd simply wait until the spring to come. Or the summer. He could keep them waiting as long as he wanted, and the longer he waited, the more likely they were to put their guard down from simply growing tired of keeping it up.

Michonne and Daryl arrived at the prison after dark. By then, the fire that Carol had used to cook on was extinguished and there were no signs of life. They half-heartedly cleared a path for themselves through the Walkers that collected near the gates and greeted Glenn when he unlocked the gates and let them in. He was clearing fences tonight, and he'd heard them approaching. The first words out of his mouth should've been expected.

"Did you get him?" Glenn asked.

Michonne didn't bother with answering. Just the question itself put her deeper into the mood that she wasn't able to kick.

Daryl answered the question with a hum and probably a shake of his head, but Michonne wasn't looking at him.

"Did you get anything on the run?" Michonne asked.

"A good bit," Glenn confirmed. "No trouble. Seven Walkers near the store. None inside. We brought back a truck to unload."

Inventory reports. That's what it always sounded like when they went on runs.

"What'd you get?" Daryl asked.

"They were a little picked over," Glenn said. "Food. A lot of canned goods. Soap and things. Dishes. Paper products. A little of this and a little of that out of what was left. There's more if we feel like we need to go back, but we got most of the food that was still edible and cleaned out the pharmacy. Looks like you guys cleaned something out too."

"Nowhere little small town," Daryl said. "Had a few things to offer. It ain't gonna get us through winter."

Michonne stopped walking and shifted around the bags that she was carrying.

"Did you find anything for Andrea? Pick her up anything?" Michonne asked.

Glenn shifted his weight uncomfortably. He didn't need to say a word. His posture said everything that his mouth could possibly say.

"They were picked over," Glenn said. "There wasn't any kind of baby section there..."

"There wasn't anything, or you didn't look at it?" Michonne asked.

"There wasn't anything," Glenn said.

Michonne hummed to herself.

"Surprising that in a warehouse store you found nothing—and that little middle of nowhere town had something," Michonne said. "At least one of us gives a damn."

She heard Daryl call her name, probably scolding her for her bad attitude, but she wasn't feeling apologetic. Whether or not her comments were warranted, she was handing them out this evening. She walked ahead, toward the prison, and left Daryl to make any apologies on her behalf that he might feel necessary.

Michonne passed through the area that they'd designated a "kitchen" area and dropped off one of the bags that she knew to have food and other assorted supplies that would belong to that part of the prison. She found the leftover dinner that had been put to the side for she and Daryl and she stood by it long enough to pick a little out of the bowl that she felt inclined to eat. She grabbed one of the nearby bottles of water and then she made her way through the dark and quiet prison, her other bags over her shoulder, toward her cell.

She was tired, and it felt like coming home. She'd never have imagined that walking through a prison would feel like coming home. But it did.

Outside the cell, Michonne put down everything she was carrying. It would be easier to trip over it in the confined space of the cell and she didn't feel like trying to maneuver around everything. Looking into the cell, the oil lamp was burning low. It was barely more than a flicker. Andrea was curled on her side under the blanket, probably asleep. Michonne reached her hands up, untied the promise that she would return, and tossed it to the side. She was back. She stripped her clothing off, piece by piece, and let it pile on the floor. She stretched her muscles, tired and sore as they were, and found a comfortable shirt that she could use as nightclothes that would guard against her absolute nudity if anyone would happen to come into their cell.

Michonne crawled onto the bed and worked her way up the bed, trying not to trample Andrea in the process. Andrea rolled, making it more difficult for a moment, and revealed that she wasn't asleep. Michonne was surprised, at first, but then she simply moved and kissed Andrea's cheek before settling down and wrapping herself around Andrea.

"You should be asleep," Michonne said, running her fingers along Andrea's arm. "What'd you do while we were gone?"

Andrea sniffed and then she laughed.

"Welcome home, honey?" She said.

Michonne laughed to herself.

"Good day at the office? Or good two days?" Andrea asked.

Michonne hummed in the negative.

"We followed him to a town," she said. "He's alone. He's hiding. We can't track him through a town. There's nothing to follow that we can be sure he left behind."

Andrea shifted and Michonne moved to allow her to go wherever she was going or do whatever it was that she'd set her mind to doing. She turned to face Michonne, frowning in the dim light.

"We'll get him," Andrea said, the best encouragement that she could offer at the moment. Michonne nodded.

"What'd you do?" Michonne asked. "While I was gone?"

"Nothing," Andrea said. She shook her head. "Nothing. You won't let me do anything. So—I did nothing except..."

She broke off and sighed so Michonne pressed her to continue, quietly asking her to finish what might come after "except" by repeating the word back to her and leaving it hanging in the same way that Andrea had done.

"Except think too much," Andrea said.

"Do you want to tell me what you're thinking about?" Michonne asked. "Or—were you keeping that for yourself?"

Andrea was quiet. She was very clearly thinking about whether or not she wanted to share whatever it was that was on her mind. The furrow between her brows, though, told Michonne that it was obviously something that she was taking hard, even if she didn't feel that it was something worth sharing.

Michonne sighed.

"Let me rephrase? I'm not going to sleep right now and whatever it is? I want you to tell me," Michonne said. "Even if—you think I won't care."

Andrea rolled her eyes around to lock them on Michonne's then. That was, apparently, what she needed to hear. She needed the permission to share whatever it was, even if she wasn't sure it was worth sharing.

"The baby doesn't move," Andrea said. "And Carol—and Hershel...they both said it should be moving by now."

Michonne smirked and then shook her head, wishing she'd been able to keep the expression from crossing her lips.

"You probably just don't know you're feeling it," Michonne said.

Andrea opened her mouth and remained that way, looking utterly offended, for at least a full minute. She shook her head to shake away the offense for the moment, but she still couldn't seem to form the words.

"I didn't know for the longest time that I was feeling my first," Michonne confirmed. "I didn't know until other people could feel her."

"What if it's a Walker, Mich?" Andrea asked.

Michonne moved and sat up, wedged between Andrea's body and the cell wall. She shook her head.

"It's not a Walker," she said.

"If something happens, and the baby dies?" Andrea said. "It'll turn, Michonne. It'll be a Walker."

Michonne shook her head again.

"That's quite possibly the worst thought that you've had in...that's a horrible thought," Michonne said. "It's not a Walker. Andrea—it's just a baby. A baby with an unfortunate sperm donor, but a baby nonetheless."

She got a warning look from Andrea and Michonne smiled.

"See? You still think it's a baby or you wouldn't be ready to defend it," Michonne said. "So Glenn and Maggie found nothing?"

Andrea shook her head and rubbed her hand over the place where the possible baby turned Walker was only beginning to make anything of its presence known. If Michonne didn't know Andrea was pregnant, she would've just assumed she was retaining water or that she'd put on a few pounds. She certainly wouldn't draw attention yet. And that was probably why she wasn't wholly aware of the presence of the tiny thing.

Michonne reached and covered Andrea's hand.

"First trimester's probably out of the way," Michonne said. "They used to say that if that something was going to happen? It more than likely would've happened by now."

Andrea chewed her lip and raised her eyebrows. That was the only response she gave.

"And it didn't happen," Michonne said, predicting what was behind the gesture. "We would know, OK? If something happened? We'd know. You'd get sick. You'd—there'd be pain. You'd know."

She sucked in a breath.

"And if something happened? We'd deal with it together. You and me," Michonne said.

"If it's something we can't deal with?" Andrea asked.

"I'm starting to believe that there isn't much we can't deal with," Michonne said. "And I've had a lot of time to think about that. Here—I got something. Daryl and I had time, and I had a hunch that Glenn and Maggie weren't going to come through with anything."

Michonne got off the bed and eased her body over Andrea's. Andrea sat up to watch her as Michonne went to get the bags that she'd left just outside the door of the cell. She ignored Andrea's teasing and the hum of approval she gave to Michonne's choice of nighttime attire. Michonne dragged the bag into the cell that she'd packed as she and Daryl had looted the stores and Andrea moved over to give her the edge of the bed to sit on.

When Michonne felt Andrea's hand on her shoulder, she dipped her face to the side and rubbed her cheek against Andrea's fingers before she went back to burrowing through the bag.

"It's a bunch of random stuff," Michonne admitted. "The pickings in that whole place were slim. They cleaned it out at the start of the whole thing, apparently, because anything that might've been valuable back then was gone. But it seems like they cleaned it out again too. A lot of basics were cleared. Still, I picked you up a few things—I'll show you tomorrow. Tonight? I think this is all that's really necessary."

She came out with fetoscope. They'd found it in a clinic that they'd cleared out—not that there was much besides some bandages and antiseptic left behind there—and Michonne had been more excited to see it than she had been to find anything else that the town had offered up.

Andrea took it from her and looked at it.

"Hershel has a stethoscope," Andrea said.

"He does," Michonne confirmed. "And it's wonderful—for hearing whether or not your heart is still beating. This one? I had one. This one's higher powered. It'll hear something that's a little deeper. For the baby."

Andrea took it and halfheartedly put the ear pieces in her ear. She barely touched the other end to her stomach before declaring that there was nothing there to hear and Michonne wrapped her hand around Andrea's.

"Give it to me," Michonne said. "You're not doing it right and you're already so down that you won't find it anyway."

Andrea took the ear pieces out of her ears and offered them to Michonne. She was trying to look annoyed. Maybe she'd just worked herself up into such a fret that the look was one she couldn't change, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.

 _She liked Michonne's interest right now._

"Lie back, get comfortable," Michonne said. "I can find it, but it isn't going to be instant."

Andrea sighed, but it was less heartfelt than the sighs from earlier. She did lie back and she moved around to assist Michonne in pulling up the nightshirt that she was wearing. Michonne pressed around with her hand, wishing she could somehow find a spot to tell her where to start exactly, and Andrea quickly covered Michonne's hand with her own.

"That's my bladder," Andrea said, laughing.

"Good enough place to start," Michonne said, biting her lip to keep from laughing. She touched the end of the fetoscope to Andrea and was immediately informed that it was cold. "Always is," Michonne teased. Then she shushed Andrea, declaring that she'd never find it if she couldn't hear anything.

With her own babies she'd had a hard time using the one she had. She'd gotten it as a baby shower gift with Anjelica and she'd barely used it with her. She'd been farther along, though, and when she had used it, she'd found it pretty easy to locate a heartbeat. She'd kept it to use later and had tried it a good deal earlier with Celine. It had relieved some anxiety, when she'd found a heartbeat, but it had caused some too when she'd been unable to locate the rapid thump.

The moment she heard it, though, Michonne felt paralyzed. Her breath caught and her stomach did an unexpected lurch. She stayed, frozen, for a few moments and simply listened.

It was the undeniable proof that there was, indeed, a baby there. It wasn't just something they were talking about. It wasn't something out in the hypothetical realm.

When Michonne glanced at Andrea, Andrea was looking at her with her brow deeply furrowed. Michonne's stillness, more than likely, was concerning to her. Michonne offered her a smile. She didn't even have to force it. It came naturally, even if it was a little unexpected.

The oddly formed lump in her throat, too, was unexpected.

"I found it," she said softly. "I don't want to lose it. Take the ear pieces."

Andrea reached and, as gingerly as she could, she did just that and then transferred them to her own ears. It took her a moment, clearly, but Michonne saw the second that realization flashed across Andrea's face and she knew what she was hearing for the first time.

Michonne's smile, now, wouldn't have faded if she'd wanted it to.

"Walkers don't have heartbeats," Michonne said.


	43. Chapter 43

**AN: Another chapter here. More to come. Checking in with Daryl and Carol.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol felt the shifting of the mattress and it rocked her into wakefulness. She'd been focusing on staying awake, as evidenced by the fact that, through her eyelids even, she could still tell that the lamp was burning beside the bed, but she'd almost failed and fallen asleep. It probably wasn't that late—not if she still ran by the time that they had once trained their bodies to obey and which they were still, from time to time, faintly aware of, but it was late to her. She'd been in bed since darkness had started to swallow up the prison.

Before she even opened her eyes, she felt the sensation of beard scratching at her face and neck. Daryl, thinking she was asleep, was nuzzling at her neck and ear. Maybe nuzzling wasn't the word that he would have chosen for it, but it was what Carol thought it to be. Even though, sometimes, it was a bit rough, she loved the sensation of it. As soon as she opened her eyes and revealed to him that she was awake and fully aware of what was happening, it would stop. So she delayed a moment and then faked that she was slowly waking, giving him time to drop beside her and act as though nothing were going on.

He smelled like soap. Fresh from the hunt with Michonne, he'd apparently swung by the showers and decided to clean up. He'd done it for Carol. She knew him well enough to know that his own stench didn't bother him at all. There had been times, before she'd expressed to him how cleanliness was so important to her, when it was available to them of course, that it could be a deal breaker for everything else, that Daryl had acted like almost had an allergy to soap and water. Now? She knew he did it for her, and she was thankful for it. She took it for everything that it meant.

When she finally opened her eyes, having given him ample notice, Carol rolled her head to look at him. She smiled at him. He was simply staring at her. He was waiting for her to wake.

"Go back to sleep," he said.

She hummed in the negative.

"I wasn't sleeping," she said. "Not really. I was waiting on you."

"Shouldn't have," Daryl said. "You didn't know if I was coming back or not."

Carol hummed again. She smiled at him.

"You always come back," she said.

A quick hint of a smile across his lips. It was quickly wiped away when he chewed at his lower lip.

"Didn't know it would be tonight," he said.

"I had a feeling," Carol said. She sucked in a breath, hoping to end the back and forth over whether or not she should sleep. "And I was right. Did you?"

He knew what she was asking. His face dropped a little and told her the answer before he even shook his head gently and hummed in the negative.

"No," he said. He sighed. Carol could hear that he was tired just in the quality of his voice. She could recognize his fatigue. It might not even be a totally physical one. He was taking on some of what was going on now. He was getting emotionally tired from it too—not that he was comfortable using those words any more than he would have been with "nuzzle". "Really thought we had him. Figured—he was alone. Didn't have nowhere to go. He weren't careful about covering his tracks. It was just a matter of time."

"So what happened?" Carol asked.

Daryl brought his hand to his mouth to tend to his cuticle with his teeth and shrugged just as Carol reached and wrapped his hand in hers to keep him from gnawing too much.

"He got us," Daryl said. "Took us right to a town. Place was pretty much fenced off because of drainage ditches. Full of nothing but Walkers that are just almost rotted to nothing. But it was still too much to track him through there. Too many people been through there. So—we just had to quit. Picked up about five backs of stuff while we was there, stopped off to sleep in a house. Then back here."

The weight in his voice got heavier as he spoke. Carol could feel that he was disappointed. He wanted to find the Governor too. He wanted to kill him. Wipe him off the face of the Earth and be done with him. There were other threats. There always would be. Maybe there'd be more to come. But, at least, he would be one less thing they had to worry about.

"You couldn't track him at all?" Carol asked.

Daryl confirmed that it was hopeless with a shake of his head.

"He don't wanna be found," Daryl said. "He's alone. He ain't no threat to us. Not right now. Won't be for a while. Gonna take him time to find people. Gonna take him time to gather up whatever he needs to try to fight us. He won't be here before he's got all of that."

"And if he doesn't get it?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged.

Carol sighed and nodded her head. There was nothing else to do in the situation. Daryl seemed to think, and she was inclined to agree with him, that the Governor wouldn't be back any time soon. If he lived, and if he managed to gather together another army and supplies, then he'd be back. There wasn't any use, though, staying awake at night and worrying about it for the time being. It wouldn't be something that would happen immediately. It would be slowed down, too, by the approaching winter. Most of the people, if they were out there, that he might get to follow him? They'd hunker down somewhere for the winter.

"Right," Carol said, not even needing a verbal response from Daryl. "Well—for now it's done. Just time to wait. Worry about ourselves. Getting ready for the winter."

"That's what I told Michonne," Daryl said. "She's taking it hard. She's—just taking it hard."

Daryl hesitated for a moment like he'd been getting ready to say something more than that, but he'd backed out of it. Carol wondered if something had happened out there that he was going to tell her and then he thought better about. Maybe it was something to do with Michonne. Maybe he was protecting her. She didn't have any problem, for instance, sharing with Hershel that Andrea was concerned her baby might be a Walker, but she wasn't going to express how deeply it affected her. There wasn't any need for that.

Carol hummed.

"Andrea's taking everything hard," she said. "But—I think Michonne needs to settle down. If he's not coming right now, he's not coming. I think—if she'd settle down? I think Andrea would calm down. I think that things would be a little more peaceful for them."

"Michonne got a bunch of stuff for Andrea," Daryl said. "Well—not a bunch of stuff, but more than she got for anybody else. Found some stuff in the clinic too. Something she was excited about."

Carol smiled.

"Good," she said. "Maybe that's—a step in the right direction?"

"I didn't get much for you," Daryl admitted. "Didn't see much you'd want. Got a couple things."

Carol's smile broadened.

"I want anything that you think I'd want," she said.

Daryl hummed.

"Everything go alright here? Weren't no—nobody done nothing?" Daryl asked.

Carol shook her head.

"Andrea was upset," Carol said. "A little bit. She's alright. Just—the baby isn't even real to her yet. She's got nothing to go on. Nothing she can—touch or see or...but she's OK. Just nerves. The run went fine. We got a good bit of food. I put most of it in storage. I feel like a squirrel. Packing things away for the winter."

Daryl chuckled at that and Carol moved, gently pressing her lips to his face. She backed up, sucking her own lips.

"You might—shave tomorrow?" She asked. "Just—a little bit?"

He smirked at her.

"Will you?" He asked.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"If you do, I will," Carol said coyly.

"Deal," Daryl said.

He fell quiet for a moment. He stared at the wall over her head. She could almost hear him thinking. She lie beside him, trailing her fingers over his arm, marveling at the fact that he was—a little more every day that passed—growing less and less bothered by her touch. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He was beginning not to even have the knee jerk reaction of looking around, when they were around others, to see who was noticing the touch. It was beginning to be natural to him.

It was very natural to her.

"This kid," Daryl said. "Means a lot to you?"

"Kid?" Carol asked.

"Andrea's?" Daryl clarified.

"Andrea and Michonne's?" Carol corrected.

Daryl made a face at the correction, but he nodded. Carol mimicked the movement with her own head.

"Why?" Daryl asked.

Carol shrugged.

"Because—we thought Andrea was dead. Twice, really. We thought she was dead. And she's not. And the second time? The baby lived through that. It just seems...like it was meant to be."

"Tough ass little kid?" Daryl teased.

Carol smiled and nodded.

"It just seems like it would be a failure on all our parts if something happened to it now," Carol said. "It could make it through all that and we—don't give it what it needs to keep going? Besides—Judith needs someone. When Sophia was little? She wanted a baby brother or sister. She didn't want to be an only child. But—she'd have still had children to play with. Judith? She'd be—what kind of world would it be if there's nobody else even close to her age?"

Daryl was staring at her, but he wasn't saying anything, so she felt the need to continue. She felt the need to justify and explain herself. She shrugged and did just that.

"I just feel like—if this baby makes it? After what—after what Andrea looked like when y'all brought her in the truck? Daryl everyone was ready to start digging the grave. And if the baby makes it? It's just a sign, don't you think? That this place is safe enough for that to happen. It's safe enough for her to recover. It's safe enough for the baby to make it. For it and Judith to grow up together. Maybe Maggie and Glenn will have one. Maybe there'll be more people," Carol said.

Daryl laughed then, quietly and almost entirely in his throat.

"I weren't saying you was wrong," he said. "Just—wanted to know how important it is to you. That's it. That's all."

Carol felt her cheeks grow warm, though she couldn't decide exactly what emotion was behind the sensation. She had no reason to be embarrassed. None at all, but she almost felt that way.

She was surprised when Daryl suddenly leaned forward and caught her lips with his own. It was a light kiss at first, but as she relaxed into it, it changed to become more of a hungry kiss. The kind where he pulled away just enough to dive in again.

In the most natural move that Carol could imagine, she put an arm around him and rolled and he followed after her as though she'd had the strength to pull him on top of her without even trying.

They kissed like that, breaking loose only for small gulps of air, for a while and finally everything in Carol's body ached until she couldn't take it any longer. Her hands searched around his back and her nails scratched at his skin. His hands found the bottom of her nightshirt and pulled it up enough for one to find her breast. When the other went on a clumsy journey inside her underwear, deterred by their positions and the presence of all of her clothes, Carol pushed at Daryl and he moved to allow her to sit up enough to work out of her clothes.

He watched her, smirking, while she did. She tried to ignore his watching, not wanting to be embarrassed or overwhelmed by the intensity of it in the moment.

"What?" Carol asked when she was finally undressed and came toward him, wrapping her arms around him again and trying to get her body as close to his as she possibly could. He shifted around, holding her so that she wouldn't move away from him, and pulled her into his lap.

"We still practicing?" Daryl asked, his voice breaking slightly as he tried to swallow back his amusement at his own joke.

"We better," Carol teased. "If for nothing else—because it's going to be a cold winter. And I don't want to freeze."

He kissed her, biting her lip until she hummed to let him know it was a little too hard for her liking.

"I think I can keep you from freezing," Daryl promised. "Got some ideas."

"Then we worry about the rest later," Carol promised. "That's good enough for now."


	44. Chapter 44

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"For the record," Michonne said, trying not to laugh but failing at it, "kneeing me in the head does not make me think that you're enjoying yourself."

Andrea laughed too, leaning her head back into the pillow and covering her eyes.

"I said I was sorry," Andrea said through her hands.

Before she changed her position, Michonne paused a moment to pepper Andrea's skin with a few more soft kisses. She was giving her a hard time, but she was fully aware that kneeing her in the head had been a total accident. Andrea had apologized for it before Michonne was even fully aware of what happened. She'd pulled away, intending to change her position, and it seemed to happen at exactly the same time Andrea had thought to change hers and roll to move to a different location on the small bed. Things just hadn't lined up perfectly—or else they'd lined up a little too perfectly.

Michonne worked her way around Andrea's body to the scar. The beginnings of her name. It was a reminder to Andrea of what had happened. It was a reminder to Michonne of what hadn't happened. It was how far they'd come. The tight, dimpled skin, clearly showed the marks of what had happened, but they were no longer tender to the touch. Andrea still shied away, physically moving her body, when Michonne touched the scars, but even her reaction was lessening with time.

This morning she only squirmed and worked her body a half inch or so around the mattress to ward off Michonne's lips on the angry looking marks.

"OK," Michonne said quietly. It was all she had to say.

Andrea responded by moving one of her hands and bringing it to rub gently at Michonne's cheek before she trailed it around to her forehead and tenderly caressed the skin there. She was petting Michonne, much like Michonne found herself petting Andrea when she woke with nightmares. Maybe it was a learned behavior.

It was cold in the cell. It wasn't freezing, but that would come. It wouldn't be long. The weather seemed to be changing quickly. The heat had given way to a crisp cool in almost the turn of one night. Soon they'd do nothing like this where they dared to be out from under the covers for even a moment. Even now, too long without the blankets over them and they were both shivering and scrambling to snuggle together and share body heat.

The Governor hadn't come. They'd seen nothing of him. They'd seen the evidence of fires in the area—the smoke seeming to hang longer in the cooling air than it did in the warm air, even if it was only a trick of their imaginations—but they didn't know if the fires belonged to him or to others that were trying to make a life as the world slowly and quietly slipped toward winter. They were still preparing. They were still stocking things and there were still construction jobs underway to get their livestock—which had increased in number at least a little—into protected spaces. But they were almost ready to face the winter and almost had enough supplies to stay right where they were without having to move at all.

And Andrea, who Michonne guessed to be somewhere between four and five months pregnant, would still insist that she wasn't showing at all. She'd still insist that she could do everything she could do before with exactly the same amount of ease. And she'd still insist that she had no knowledge that the baby was there beyond the fact that she could sometimes find the heartbeat as evidence of its presence.

Michonne, however, believed none of it.

Andrea was showing. She might not be the largest she was going to be, but she was clearly showing. Michonne saw it and so did everyone else. Andrea saw it too, she was simply choosing to pretend she didn't. And Michonne knew that the baby moved. It kicked and Andrea was aware of it, even if she didn't fully realize it. Every now again, if Michonne was watching her while she was engaged in some other activity, Andrea would trail a hand to her stomach and press it—like someone seeking out some evidence or cause for some new discomfort—and then she'd drop the hand. She might not realize what it was. She might sincerely think it was some pull of a muscle, as she waved it off to be, or some kind of twitch, but Michonne knew.

What she didn't know was exactly how to talk about the things that they needed to talk about. It never seemed the right moment to bring them up. She never knew quite the right words to use. Because of that, the words simply seemed to go unsaid. Everything got put off for another day—and then another.

They needed to talk about things like how they'd move forward—what would Andrea be expected to stop doing as they moved forward. They needed to talk about the basic things like where the baby would sleep. As of yet there was no crib and Michonne hadn't brought it up to anyone that, if they didn't remedy that before the cold, especially since they couldn't be entirely sure when the baby was due and were only guessing by Andrea's size, it was a very real possibility that their baby would be sleeping in Judith's old mail box until it was just too large to fit. They needed to talk about how they wanted to handle raising it. What things were important in this world and what weren't? They needed to decide that. They needed to come to some agreement about things. After all, they were very different in everything else they did. They were bound to have different ideas about parenting.

And they needed to talk about why Andrea was afraid of the baby—because that's what Michonne felt like it was. She felt like Andrea's brushing off of comments or questions about the baby had to be tied to some fear or some psychological discomfort. Even when Maggie, who was either being forced into some kindness or was somehow starting to come around with time, tried to ask something as a nicety, Andrea shrugged it off and barely responded at all.

If pushed to talk about it too much, she almost looked a little ill.

Michonne couldn't speak for Andrea, but she could speak for herself. Michonne knew why she was afraid of the baby, but she didn't talk about her fears any more than Andrea did. She let them stay silently on her mind. She didn't tell Andrea that there were days when, just waking up in the morning, she let her hand drift down to the bump that Andrea would insist wasn't there, and she was halfway overtaken with the urge to get up and go. Go where, she had no idea. It was simply the feeling that she needed to go. She needed to run.

This was still his baby. She didn't feel, yet, that it had any tie to her whatsoever. They didn't talk about it much, and they didn't talk about it like it did—so it just didn't feel like hers, even if she lied and said it did. It was still _dangerous_. Andrea had never had a child before. They had no idea how she'd handle it. They had no idea if her body would do well with carrying full term and delivering. Michonne was afraid that a baby—that his baby—might very well find a way to take care of what he hadn't quite been able to do.

If the Governor came, Michonne could kill him. She could stop him. She felt almost confident that she could take his life from him before he could take anything precious or important from her.

But how could she fight a baby whose only real crime would be that it had been born and that it's mother hadn't been physically prepared for it? It was an irrational thought to even have and Michonne was fully aware of that fact, but it still didn't keep her from feeling slightly panicked about the whole thing. Even Hershel's well-meant promises that everything looked good, that he was confident everything was well and would go well, and that he wasn't concerned but would be prepared to do all he could to handle it, if indeed there was a problem, didn't do anything to calm Michonne's nerves. She could hide them on the outside, but that didn't do a thing for what she felt inside.

And if Andrea was fine? But the baby wasn't?

Andrea might not be attached to the baby yet. She might be simply pretending that she wasn't as some kind of defense mechanism. It was impossible for Michonne to be entirely sure. But what was certain was that it would still affect her if there was no baby. It would still affect her if something happened to it.

Michonne knew what it was to lose a child. Even if her situation was different, and even if she'd never had any real discussion with anyone else—Carol included—who had ever gone through that, she couldn't imagine that it would be easy on Andrea. It wasn't something that Michonne wanted to see her go through. It wasn't something that she wanted to know Andrea was feeling.

Just thinking of it? It made Michonne feel as ill as Andrea sometimes looked.

But they weren't talking about it. They'd really talked very little about any of it. It just never seemed like the right time.

Michonne brought her lips against Andrea's skin to softly touch the bump, that they were pretending wasn't there, while she felt Andrea's hand gently trailing fingertips over every surface of her skin that Andrea could reach. She felt the jump at the same time that Andrea apparently felt it because Andrea's whole body jumped just a half a beat after it. Andrea couldn't say she hadn't felt it—or that she didn't feel the jump that followed while Michonne lingered there waiting on it—because the tiny jerk wasn't enough to shake Andrea's whole frame the way it had.

Michonne abandoned her kissing and looked at Andrea. Andrea was staring at her. It was an odd sort of stare. It was like she was waiting to see if Michonne was going to say something. It looked like she was afraid that Michonne might. For just a second, Michonne almost thought Andrea's eyes were glittering like they were damp.

Michonne swallowed and smiled, hoping her optimism and enthusiasm could somehow erase the slightly unpleasant expression on Andrea's face. She put her hand over the spot she'd been kissing and gingerly pressed in a little. She didn't have to wait long, though, for another of the small jumps.

"Hiccups," Michonne said. "I feel them. You must."

Andrea just continued to stare at her.

"Maybe we got her too excited?" Michonne teased.

Andrea simply continued to stare at her, though she did move to roll onto her side a little more.

"It's not caused by excitement, for the record," Michonne said. "It's just—it's just a normal thing. Sometimes? It can feel like it's all the time. Like—like the baby never stops hiccupping."

Andrea stopped her caressing of Michonne's skin and Michonne changed her position entirely. When she came back to rest beside Andrea, Andrea made room for her without saying anything. She simply lie on her side and stared just over Michonne's arm and toward the wall of the cell.

"She's been kicking for a while now?" Michonne asked.

Andrea didn't say anything.

"We need to know these things," Michonne said. "They'll be a clearer indication of—of where you're at. Of how much longer we have to go, than anything else. How much you gain or don't gain depends on a lot—especially on how much you're eating and how much exercise you're getting. But her? How she grows? It'll tell us more. It'll tell us things we need to know."

Andrea sucked in a breath that she held for a moment and then let out with a sigh.

"I don't know if it's kicking or not," she said. "I didn't know that was hiccups. I feel like I don't know anything. And—I don't want to say anything because then? If I'm wrong? I just look—stupid."

Michonne was struck, but as she digested the comment, she laughed to herself.

"Is that what you're afraid of?" Michonne asked.

Andrea furrowed her brow at her, an expression all it took for her to ask a question.

"Is that why you don't talk about the baby at all?" Michonne asked. "Because you're afraid that you'll say something wrong and someone will—think you're stupid?"

Andrea frowned at her.

"I don't talk about it because I don't have anything to say," Andrea said. "I don't know—I'm never sure if it's kicking or if I've just got something going on in there."

Michonne laughed again.

"Oh—you've got something going on in there," she said.

Andrea didn't look amused, but Michonne was feeling unapologetic. At the moment, it was the lightest she'd felt about the whole situation. And, since it wasn't doing Andrea any real harm beyond turning her face pink with embarrassment, Michonne wasn't ready to give up the feeling of the moment just yet.

"I don't know what it is," Andrea said, her tone a little harsher than before and her voice a little louder. Michonne bit back the instinct to hush her so that her voice wouldn't go echoing through the prison and wake everyone up before Carol was even awake to make breakfast. "People ask me things and I don't know how to answer them. I don't know when she's kicking. I don't know if that's a hiccup or—or just a..."

Andrea never did offer her alternate explanation of the hiccup.

And Michonne realized it was upsetting her. Likely that wasn't the only reason that she wasn't talking about the baby, but it was the one that she was using for her cover at the moment. It was her security blanket.

Michonne reached her hand out and stroked Andrea's arm slowly and deliberately. Andrea might not realize it, but Michonne had already learned that certain things like that calmed her down. They could sometimes soothe her out of a nightmare without even waking her. There was no reason to believe it wouldn't soothe her now, even though she was awake.

"Nobody's going to think you're stupid," Michonne said. "Just—say what you want to say. Answer the questions. Mary, Carol, and I are the only ones who've even had babies. Nobody else even knows if what you're saying is true."

Andrea went quiet for a moment, but when she spoke again, it was clear that she was changing the subject. It never was, after all, the right time—even if Michonne could have thought of the right words.

"I'm sorry—for kicking you in the head," Andrea said.

Michonne sighed to herself. She accepted they wouldn't talk about things today. Maybe it was better anyway. After all, she still didn't know what she wanted to say. She still wasn't sure how to say it if she did.

"It's OK," Michonne said. Then she smiled to herself. "It's no worse than me accidentally—closing mine on you."

Andrea laughed, clearly feeling better, and she moved closer to Michonne and pulled the blanket over top of them. Michonne wrapped herself around Andrea, abandoning conversation in favor of another hour or so of sleep. Morning would officially come soon around the prison, and with that? There would be plenty more to keep them busy.


	45. Chapter 45

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **A slight time jump to set up for more things to come.**

 **I hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!**

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"This is the heaviest board I've ever held in place!" Andrea shouted. "I can barely hold it! My—my muscles are shaking! I don't know if—I can hold it!"

Tyreese laughed and stopped hammering the board into place long enough to find Michonne with his eyes and follow her as she walked away from her most recent round near where they were working.

"She only does it because she cares, you know," Tyreese asserted. "She only does it because—she loves you. She wants to look out for you."

"She's treating me like I'm a baby," Andrea commented. "Like I can't even hold a board into place without supervision."

Tyreese laughed.

"And you better get used to that until you have that baby," Tyreese said. "I don't know about women, but I'm guessing it can't be that different. When my wife was pregnant? I would've wrapped her in bubble wrap if she'd have held still long enough."

Andrea dropped her hands from the board when Tyreese stopped his hammering and wiped at his forehead. It was his sign, so she'd learned, that he was done with this part of the task. They'd moved from board to board this way all morning. He was putting some of the last boards on some of the buildings that they were calling barns. The next step they had was tacking in place plastic—her job was to hold it in place of course since Michonne deemed her unable to use a hammer—to keep out the winter wind for the livestock.

"You were married?" Andrea asked.

Tyreese smiled and nodded.

"Yep," he said.

"You had children?" Andrea asked.

His smile only broadened and he laughed.

"A daughter," he said. "Julie."

Andrea swallowed. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know..."

Tyreese shook his head at her.

"You wouldn't," he said. "Because I didn't tell you, so you weren't supposed to know. I told Carol. Our girls—they would've been about the same age. Julie was a little older. I lost her pretty early on."

Andrea chewed her lip. Emotion for people she'd never even met was welling up inside her and she didn't know how to explain that. Everyone lost. Everyone here had lost so much. They'd lost so many people. Every new story that she heard just reminded her of that.

"Your wife?" Andrea asked.

"Before the outbreak," Tyreese said, but he didn't expand upon it. Andrea didn't push him. It wasn't really her business and it was his choice to reveal what he wanted to reveal and to keep, for himself, that which he decided belonged entirely to him and him alone. Michonne kept her story to herself. Carol, Andrea suspected, only shared hers because so many people had been there to witness it. She hadn't been allowed the luxury of mourning her loss privately.

Andrea must have been standing there awkwardly, though she really hadn't meant to be, because Tyreese stretched a hand out and patted her shoulder. He trailed it down and squeezed the upper part of her arm like he was trying to comfort her over his losses.

"Why do you think they keep putting you with me?" He said, smiling again. "I don't mind following the rules and giving you jobs—like holding up plastic."

Andrea laughed to herself and shook her head.

"Everything around here is a conspiracy?" She said.

"Pretty much," Tyreese said. "But—the plastic does need to be hung, and you're doing an exceptional job of helping me."

Andrea rolled her eyes at him, but she couldn't help but laugh. He laughed too. Clearly he'd either done his mourning or he was simply able to keep back his feelings when he was around other people and felt required to do so.

"You want some water?" Andrea asked, gesturing toward the prison as her indication that she'd go and get him some if he wanted it—or if he just wanted a moment or two alone. He shook his head at her.

"Karen will be around soon enough," he said. "Let's get the plastic up. Then tomorrow we don't have to worry with it."

Andrea walked with him toward the large roll of plastic that Glenn and Maggie had found somewhere. He wrestled up one end of it before he put it down and whistled, getting Glenn's attention from not too far away and gesturing his need for help.

"Is there any use in me offering to help move it?" Andrea asked.

Tyreese chuckled.

"None at all," he said.

Before Glenn could make the short trip between where he was working and where they were working, though, they were all interrupted by Carl's shouting as the boy jogged across the yard.

"Somebody's coming up the road!" He announced. "Somebody's coming! In a truck!"

Andrea looked around, out of instinct, to try to assess the situation, but she didn't have long to do so. Tyreese caught her by the arm and pulled her with him toward the barns. Quickly, he shoved her inside the shelter.

"Stay in here," he said. "Don't come out. Not until someone comes for you."

When Tyreese swung the door closed, leaving Andrea secured in the barn as though she were one of the cows, she stood there a moment before she was even able to take in the whole thing. If it had been dark, she might have panicked, but there was more than enough light entering in through the boards that weren't flat against each other. That was, after all, why they needed the extra layer of plastic covering parts that would let the most wind in.

Andrea pushed at the door and realized that, even though he'd told her to stay in there, Tyreese had taken a moment to slide the wooden latch into place and had, essentially, left her no choice but to stay in the barn. She was locked in there until someone came to let her out—either that or until she gathered up the care to break her way out, one board at a time, without tools.

At least the animals hadn't been in here yet, so she didn't have any company.

She walked over and peeked through the boards to look toward the gate. Anyone who was coming from the road would, more than likely, veer down the small roadway that led to the gate. That's where they'd approach if they were making a straightforward approach. Anyone not wanting to announce themselves in such a way would probably have avoided that road entirely.

Andrea could hear her own breathing in the space. Even though there was plenty of air, and she knew that there was no way she'd suffocate in the barn, she could feel her pulse pick up a little at the momentary thought. It didn't have long to last, though, because the approach of a truck—just as Carl had announced would happen—kicked her pulse up the rest of the way. She scampered to the other wall of the building and tried to peer through the cracks to find signs of everyone else—anyone else. Right now it appeared that they were all in hiding. It appeared that they'd, just after she was closed into the building, all managed to disappear. She knew they were preparing for whatever it might be, but not having any idea where anyone else might have gone was a little terrifying in itself.

She returned to the wall that gave her the best sight of the gate and leaned close to the wooden boards to look out as best she could. She jumped when she felt the baby, as she often felt her, hiccupping. Now that she knew what the sensation was, thanks to Michonne, she recognized that the little thing suffered from the hiccups at least two or three times a day, and sometimes during the night. It was a regular reminder to Andrea that she was there, even if she might try to push it out of her mind at times. Absentmindedly, Andrea rubbed at her belly hoping it would somehow soothe over the bout of hiccups and watched as Rick walked toward the gate. From her limited view of everything, he might as well have appeared out of thin air.

Andrea closed her eyes and said a quick and silent prayer that nothing would happen. They'd been preparing for the Governor to return. They all expected that he would. But that didn't mean that Andrea didn't spend half her nights lying awake and hoping that he wouldn't.

And certainly not when she was locked in a barn and couldn't do anything at all to help anyone. She was doomed to do nothing more at the moment than just watch what happened.

But when the truck pulled to a stop, Andrea was almost certain that it wasn't the Governor. There was a truck, but just one. From what she could see, it was a small delivery truck of sorts. There was a closed in back to it, but it certainly wouldn't hold an army of any respectable size. The Governor wouldn't come, she thought, to the prison alone. And he certainly wouldn't come alone and drive bravely up to the gates. There weren't many of them here, even if they were all fighting and she wasn't trapped, but there were enough of them that he wouldn't be stupid enough to face them alone. That's not he worked.

He wasn't a risk taker.

When the door to the truck cab opened, a man got out. Andrea could make out nothing of his features or anything else, but she could immediately tell that he wasn't the Governor. He assumed, even before Rick held up his gun, the position of surrender with his hands up. Rick seemed to accept the gesture and made his way toward the gates. The man, in response, walked toward the fence himself.

Andrea abandoned watching the two men for a moment and made her way back to the other wall of the barn. She peeked out in search of the appearance of other members of the group. Now, around the yard, she could see one or two more figures. Michonne had appeared. She was walking toward Rick. Daryl wasn't far behind her. The others, Andrea assumed, were in other positons.

She returned to the view that allowed her to see the gates, hoping that there wasn't going to be anything to this encounter. Maybe the man and whoever was with him—because there was clearly another figure in the cab of the truck—were just survivors who had come upon the prison. Maybe they were people who had fled Woodbury and were, just now, searching for a place for the winter.

Maybe, and this was something she was holding onto desperately, the Governor would never return. Maybe he'd given up or someone had killed him—like she knew that she should've done. She should have never let Milton stop her when she'd had the chance and was prepared to take it.

Whatever the discussion was seemed to go on for a while through the fences. Eventually, everyone outside besides Rick and the man he was speaking with began to look bored. Andrea gave up watching and eased herself down the wall to sit on the ground and wait. She may have even drifted off, because she nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the scrape of the wooden latch and the creak of the door as it was opened.

Michonne stood in the doorway, laughing quietly when Andrea looked at her and shielded her eyes against the sudden flooding of bright light into the very dimly lit space.

"It looks like we found the perfect place for you," Michonne said. She was clearly amused at Tyreese's choice of location for Andrea. "It's like a playpen."

Andrea stayed where she was. Primarily, she didn't want to give Michonne any more of a laugh at watching her try to get up, but secondarily she wasn't too pressed to leave the space now that she knew that nothing terrible was happening.

"Who is it?" Andrea asked.

Michonne hummed.

"Survivors," she said.

"I can see that, Mich," Andrea said.

"Daryl thinks we should let them stay. The more the merrier. Extra hands for work and extra hands if something happens," Michonne said.

"And?" Andrea said. "What do you think?"

"I think we need to get you out of the dirt," Michonne said. She came into the barn then and offered a hand to Andrea. Andrea took it and let Michonne help her up before she set about dusting herself off from having sat in the dirt. "And I think we need to hear them out," Michonne added. "He's got kids with him. They won't make it out there for long."

Andrea nodded, humming her understanding. Until she met them, she'd reserve her judgment on newcomers, but she didn't have any real problem with new additions. She started out of the barn, but Michonne caught her arm and pulled her back. She brushed her hand across Andrea's belly.

"She OK?" Michonne asked.

"Fine," Andrea said. "Nothing happened."

She laughed to herself.

"But she did get the hiccups," Andrea said.

Michonne laughed.

"She gets nervous," Michonne said. "Like—her Mama." She brushed her knuckles, then, against Andrea's cheek. "You OK?"

Andrea smiled and nodded, bringing her hand up to catch Michonne's and pull it over to her lips. She kissed her fingers gently.

"You're fine," Andrea said. "Everyone's fine. And—he didn't come today. It's a good day."

Michonne simply nodded in response. Andrea didn't know if it was because she didn't have anything to say or if she wasn't as fine as she pretended to be. After all, she'd have a scare too if she thought he was actually coming. So, instead of pressing Michonne to say anything, Andrea wrapped her arm around Michonne and pulled her with her to leave the barn.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go—meet the newcomers."


	46. Chapter 46

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne and Andrea had taken their time making their way toward the prison. There was no need to rush. The people piling out of the truck that had pulled up—a delivery truck of sorts—would all be there when they got there and, if they chose to stay, they weren't going anywhere any time soon.

"Did you tell Tyreese to lock me in a barn?" Andrea asked as they walked.

Michonne laughed to herself.

"No," she said. "He came up with that on his own. But—it was a good idea. I'm not mad about it."

"Mich! What if that had been _him_?" Andrea asked.

"Then you'd have been right where you needed to be," Michonne said. "Out of the way and out of danger."

If he blew up the barn I wouldn't be out of danger," Andrea said.

Michonne felt her stomach flip even at the suggestion of it. She didn't want to admit it, but she felt like, when and if the Governor ever did come, there was no such thing as being out of danger. One of the problems with dealing with psychopaths was that they could be pretty unpredictable. Still, the barn was better than running around in the open.

"I don't think he'd blow up a small barn," Michonne said. "That's not going to be his goal."

"He blew up the watchtower," Andrea countered.

"To keep us from seeing him coming, maybe?" Michonne responded. As soon as she said it, she realized how ridiculous it sounded. Andrea didn't waste a second pointing it out, either.

"Right," Andrea said. "Because the fiery explosion wouldn't draw half as much attention as just seeing a truck or something approach down the road—the truck that blew it up in the first place."

Michonne sighed.

"The barn was as good a place as any," she said, but she didn't press it any more than that.

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The truck had brought a real ensemble to the prison. To add to their already assorted mix of people, the new arrivals had brought four men, two young women, and two young girls to the group. Carol had felt herself start when she'd noticed the two young girls getting out of the truck, both looking dirty and terrified, but very much healthy, because it reminded her that some people had gotten this far with their children.

There were some people who hadn't lost theirs. There were some who had been able to keep them safe.

Carol had to swallow down the emotions that it had brought over her, very unexpectedly, to see the young girls in the company of the group. She felt a mix of jealousy and bitterness, both leaving a sour taste in her mouth, that came with a strange sense of nostalgia and longing that made her feel that breathing was uncomfortable and unnecessarily difficult. The feelings, she knew, were irrational and unjustified, but they were there just the same. They'd bubbled up without even asking her permission.

By the time they were all settled, though, where they could interrogate the group as surely as they had Tyreese and his companions upon their arrival, Carol had almost complete control over her emotions.

The man who had been driving the truck, and the one they'd spoken to about accepting them into the prison, was a large bodied man. He seemed to be aggravated or annoyed by something. His jaw was firmly set and he seemed tense and rigid. He stood straight—military training perhaps—and seemed like he felt that everything was a waste of time. He seemed to forget, of course, that it was he who had stopped at the prison. They hadn't exactly run him down.

One of the young women with him looked equally as impatient and unhappy to be here. The others, though, simply looked a little afraid of the place, if not curious about everyone that they'd just found living in a prison that they were doing their best to convert into a suitable place to spend the rest of their lives.

"We're not trying to stay here," the soldier-bodied man, named Abraham, said. "We're on our way to D.C. We have a mission that we have to fulfill. The sooner we get to D.C., the sooner the world gets back to normal."

There was a rumble of laughter that ran through several people present. Carol, herself, stifled something of a chuckle. Optimism was a good thing to have. Too much of it, though, and you just started to sound foolish. Maybe they'd all believed, once upon a time, that the world might magically turn back into what it was, but still believing it after all this time just seemed like holding on a little too long.

Abraham looked even more annoyed at their humor over his very serious mission.

"Eugene is a scientist," he said. "Working for the government. He is the only man left alive that knows how to stop this and how to cure the virus for everyone. You're laughing now, but you'll feel differently when you're able to lead normal lives outside the walls of this prison."

"Right now we'll settle for normal lives inside it," Michonne said.

Abraham looked at her.

"I didn't expect you all to believe," he said.

"If you don't want to stay then what do you want from us?" Rick interjected. "We've got a lot to do here and we're running out of time to do it before it's too cold. What do you need for us to get you on your way?"

"We're not all staying," Abraham said.

"We don't want to make the trip to D.C.," one of the other men, Ryan, said. He shook his head and glanced around at all of them. "I've got my girls to think of. Like you said, winter's coming. It'll get harsher the further north we go. I don't want to subject my girls to that. I'm looking for a safe place to stay."

"How did you find us?" Rick asked.

He was looked at, then, by everyone in the group. Several of them wore a confused look. However, this time, it was Abraham's turn to be amused by something.

"It's a damn prison," Abraham said. "Every one of them is marked on the right kinds of maps. This one is marked too. I didn't find this place by chance. And I wasn't looking for you. You just happened to be here."

Carol supposed that the man might have different maps than the one they'd had. The prison hadn't been marked on it. Of course, it had also been the cheapest and simplest map of Georgia that any gas station might offer. There wasn't much that had been marked on it. She assumed that, maybe, there were more official maps that would contain the whereabouts of correctional facilities—for those that would be interested in such a thing.

"What do you want with the prison?" Carol asked, deciding that she had just as much right as anybody else to get involved in the question asking process.

"To leave them here," Abraham said. "Correctional facilities and military bases are the safest locations at the moment. Assuming they're structurally sound, they're built to withstand a number of problems. It's safer than leaving them by the road somewhere."

"We'll do whatever you need for us to do," one of the other men said, Carol was pretty sure that he'd identified himself as Ben. "We'll pull our weight. You've got kids. We've got kids with us. They could—babysit? We can work."

"We'll accept the work," Daryl interjected quickly.

Carol was shocked that he was quick to accept them into the group, but glancing at him she could tell that he was clearly thinking about something—surely she'd hear more about it in the future when they were alone—and for some reason he'd determined it would be a good idea to keep them there.

"We could use the hands," he added, more quietly, when he realized that everyone was staring at him.

"If you're going to stay," Rick said, apparently choosing not to fight Daryl on this at the moment, "then you should really all stay. The winter isn't going to be easy. Travelling? You don't know what you'll run into. You should stay through the cold and leave in the spring."

"If I may," the one that Abraham had identified as Eugene said, this time looking at members of his own group, "it may be advisable that we refrain from travel toward D.C. until the spring. It would not be at all desirable to become stranded on mountain highways and freeze to death for having passed up the opportunity to spend the cold months in a protected location."

Abraham looked at him, narrowed his eyes, and then responded.

"You want to just delay getting to D.C. like that?" Abraham asked. "We could be there by spring. The whole damn world could be back to normal without any of these brain eating maggot farms walking around."

Carol could feel his frustration, even though she was across the room from him. She wriggled slightly in her seat, wondering if the man was at all stable. She wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not, even if he agreed to stay, to invite him to live with them.

"I don't think it's advisable to delay reaching D.C. indefinitely by freezing to death," Eugene pointed out.

"Abraham, maybe he's right," the equally annoyed young woman said—Carol had forgotten her name.

And then, somehow, there was a shift in the conversation. A few more words tossed between them and, before Carol knew it, they were agreeing that they would all stay at least until the thaw. And even if she hadn't learned their names yet, Carol realized she was going to be asked to organize the food supplies to feed these extra people and she was going to be asked to make sure that there were clean cells for them.

She glanced at Daryl. He looked somewhat pleased that they were staying. He was gnawing on his thumb—either a sign that he was nervous or that he was working something out that required focused thinking and therefore required his energy to be directed somewhere—and he was nodding gently to himself like he was physically agreeing with what was going on in his mind.

Nobody else seemed to be protesting either, so Carol assumed that it must be a good idea. It would simply take them time, as it had with the others, to adjust to new people in their surroundings and new members to their group. The extra hands, if nothing else, would be welcome.

"You should know," Rick said, "that we're possibly a target here."

"A target of what?" Ben asked, not leaving anyone else any time to respond.

"There's a madman," Michonne said, glancing at Rick after she said it. He didn't seem to protest to her speaking for him. "He's got a grudge against us. Against me and—really all of us. He attacked us once before, but he failed. He tried to kill us. He burned down a town that he'd built, about two or three miles from here. He killed everyone there that he could kill."

"So we kill him," Abraham said, this time almost flippantly. He chuckled to himself. He had the perfect solution that, clearly, none of them had come up with yet. "End of problem."

"It's not that easy," Michonne said, shaking her head at him. "We've looked for him, but we can't find him. We've seen some fires and some proof of life, but either it isn't him or he's too quick for us."

"Or maybe he's moved on?" The young woman offered—the one who had been able to turn Abraham's attitude around. "Dead? People are dying every day."

"Every day until we get to D.C.," Abraham said.

She gave him a look. Carol didn't have to ask what it meant. She could feel that it was a warning look. They weren't discussing D.C. right now. Carol had a good feeling that they'd be discussing it a lot, and that everyone in the prison would tire of hearing about it, but they weren't discussing it right now.

"We don't know if he's alive or he ain't," Daryl said, his voice indicating that he was growing annoyed at the discussion of the Governor.

"Either way," Michonne said, "you should know there's a chance he's coming back. That's why we're reinforcing the fences. That's why we all came out like we did when you got here."

"One man?" Abraham asked.

"One crazy man," Michonne said. "He may be looking for backup now. He might be building an army."

Abraham seemed amused again.

"I'm not afraid of one man," he said. "I could handle that on my own."

"Armed to the teeth?" Rick offered, this time seeming a little amused himself.

Abraham looked at him.

"Just makes it a little more interesting," he said.

Carol smiled to herself. Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad, after all, to have these new people on board. They could use the extra hands. They were all tired and not thinking clearly. They could certainly use a clear perspective on things. And it seemed like this group might actually have something to bring to the table.


	47. Chapter 47

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne reached a hand behind her and pressed at Andrea's belly for a moment. Finally, Andrea moved and pushed Michonne's hand out of the way.

"I'm focusing on not having to get up to pee, and that's not helping," Andrea said.

"This bed is not big enough for three of us," Michonne responded back. "She's—kicking _me_."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"Can you really feel her?" Andrea asked.

"When you push up against me like that? Yeah, I can really feel her," Michonne said.

She sighed and moved around. Andrea backed up as much as she could, trying to give Michonne room to change positions or do whatever it was that she was trying to do, but it didn't take long to realize that the woman wasn't going to get comfortable quickly. So Andrea gave up the fight against her bladder and got up to relieve herself while Michonne dealt with whatever it was that was really keeping her awake.

"There's not enough room in this bed," Michonne said again, this time with more irritation than before.

"You want to go to another cell?" Andrea asked. "I think there's plenty of room."

"She doesn't," Michonne pointed out. "If she did, she'd sleep."

"I'm pretty sure she's nocturnal," Andrea said. "At least—I'm almost certain she doesn't like to sleep any time she thinks I might be considering it."

Michonne made a growling noise. Andrea, rather than return immediately to the cot, stood in the cell and cooled off with the air that was around her and quite a few degrees cooler than that which had been trapped under the blankets. There might be enough room in the bed, even if they were really pushing it in the small cot, but there was no denying that it was hot. It would be great, of course, when the cold really set in, but right now it just reduced them both to being sweaty, even when they were only sleeping.

"Mich, is the baby in my uterus really causing you this much distress while you sleep, or is there something else going on?" Andrea asked finally. "Because if I can't feel her that much, I know she can't be bothering you too bad."

Michonne sat up on the cot and put her back to the wall so that she could face Andrea. The darkness of the cell didn't matter at this point. Andrea's eyes were so well-adjusted to it that she could see Michonne pretty clearly and could almost swear that she was starting to develop some sort of night vision.

"What are we doing?" Michonne asked.

"We were trying to sleep," Andrea said, helping herself to one of the bottles of water that they had in the cell, even though she knew it would have her back out of the bed in twenty minutes. Of course, that was assuming that she even made it to the bed.

"I mean—the whole thing," Michonne said. "We live in a prison."

Andrea groaned and hopped on her feet at the absolute feeling of instant misery such a comment brought washing over her. It felt like a bucket of frustration being poured over her head and soaking her instantly.

"Please don't start that again," Andrea begged. "In a prison or on an island, what does it really matter, Mich?"

"On an island there's no Governor waiting to show up," Michonne said. "There's no—worrying about if you're in a barn that he decides to blow up. There are no people showing up with half-baked stories about saving the world one bad mullet at a time."

Andrea snorted. She was thankful for that.

"Don't lock me in the barn and I won't get blown up in a barn," Andrea said. "Listen, we've been over the plan a thousand times. If he comes and we have time, we all run for cover. I get inside with Judith and Carl and Beth and...I'm guessing the new little girls? And I hide with them. I know the rules. I've heard them a few times."

"And if he blows up the prison?" Michonne asked.

"Then we're all dying anyway," Andrea said.

"And if we don't have time?" Michonne tested.

Andrea rolled her eyes, even though she knew that Michonne wouldn't be able to see that particular gesture in the semi-darkness. She'd know it was happening, though.

"Then I head for cover," Andrea said. "Unless I can get a weapon, in which case I shoot him in the damn head and end this once and for all."

"That wasn't in the plan," Michonne said. "I'm sure I don't remember that part."

"I'm a better shot than most of the people around here, Mich," Andrea said. "I could end it if I could get a clear shot."

"And if he gets a clear shot on you first, he could end you," Michonne pointed out.

"I don't think he'd shoot me," Andrea said. "Not now..."

"He handcuffed you to a chair, tortured you, and then left you in a room with a Walker. I'm pretty sure that shooting you isn't going to break his heart," Michonne responded. "It might bother him that he didn't get to toy with you longer, but it isn't going to break his heart that you're as dead as he already thinks you are."

Andrea hummed and rubbed her belly.

"Yes—but—you and, well everyone else, say she's pretty obvious by now. By now? If he got a clear shot, he'd see that I was pregnant. And I don't think he'd shoot me," Andrea said. She ignored the fact that even saying the words make a shiver run through her that quaked her whole body.

Michonne was quiet for a moment. Then the moment extended into a somewhat awkward silence between them that just hung there. She didn't have to say. Andrea could feel what she was thinking. She didn't like that idea. She didn't even want to think about it. Michonne's entire "plan" was to keep Andrea entirely out of sight and out of mind for the man should he return any time soon.

"I'll hide in the prison if there's time," Andrea said with a sigh. "And—if there isn't? I'll try to get out of the way. But—if I'm somewhere safe? And I have a gun? And I have a clear shot? I have to take it, Mich. I have to try."

Michonne made a noise that might have been a mumbled word or it might have simply been an almost silent expression of her dislike. Andrea knew, though, that Michonne's "dislike" and her irritation over everything was stemming from the whole situation—not just one particular thing.

Andrea sighed again and finished off the bottle of water. She realized, as soon as she'd done it, that she should have at least offered some of the liquid to Michonne, but it was too late now and there was another bottle should Michonne feel half as thirsty as Andrea did at the moment.

"Maybe," Andrea mused, "mullet man really does know how to save the world, Mich. You know, Milton thought they could figure out a cure to it if there was enough time. That maybe it could be reversed, even."

"Milton also tried to eat you and you killed him with the handle of a pair of pliers," Michonne said.

"I put him down with pliers," Andrea said. "He was already dead."

"What if we bring her into this world for nothing else but to die?" Michonne asked. "The baby, Judith, this isn't—it isn't as easy as used to be to keep them alive."

Andrea felt her chest tighten. It was something she thought about constantly, though. She'd only just started to become comfortable with the idea that every hour she didn't have to think about if the baby might have already died. It certainly was never very far from her mind that something could happen when she was part of the world. Andrea scratched her fingertips over her belly.

"There's nothing to do now," Andrea said. "One way or another—she's coming. We just—do the best we can, that's all."

Michonne looked like it was weighing on her. Her face showed her fatigue. It was worse tonight, maybe because of their new arrivals, than it had been lately. It was a reminder that Michonne wasn't letting anything go, even when she acted like she was. She was simply acting like her own personal Hercules and was choking it all back. It wouldn't get taken care of until it finally had to come out—Andrea wasn't able to force it out of her, even if she tried. Finally, Andrea shook her head at her.

"It's not happening tonight, Mich," Andrea said. "Hershel said...he said she's probably still got months before she's even born. Three—maybe more? Who knows? So we don't have to worry about it tonight."

"We have to worry about it sometime," Michonne said quietly.

"But not tonight," Andrea repeated. "Tonight? You could let me and—this wiggly thing—back into the bed and we could just curl up and sleep. We could just—not worry about any of it. Nothing outside of right now. Nothing outside of this cell and that tiny, hot, cramped up cot. Or we could talk about it. Really talk about it."

Michonne hummed in the negative.

"Don't want to talk about it," she said quietly.

"Then you could let me back in the bed and we could—just forget about it together. For just a little while," Andrea offered.

Michonne stared at her and only barely shifted her weight some on the cot.

"If you want to, of course," Andrea said. "Or—we could stay up and worry about things that we can't even guarantee are going to happen and not talk about them at all."

Michonne gave her something of an annoyed look that was clear despite the darkness, but then she changed her position entirely, slipped back under the cover, and then held it up to gesture that Andrea should come in to join her. Andrea smiled at her and moved to finally return to the bed.

"Just—put your back to me this time," Michonne said. "We fit better that way."

Andrea laughed and slipped into the space provided her. She hummed when MIchonne wrapped her arms around her.

"See? More than enough room—and she's not moving now at all," Andrea said as her only response. Michonne reached around her and patted her belly before she nuzzled at the back of Andrea's neck, adjusting herself to settle down and at least attempt to sleep.

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Carol rooted a little deeper into Daryl's body and a little farther from the wall. Getting pressed against it made her cold, but she didn't want to inconvenience him by taking up too much of the space. She wasn't opposed, at any rate, to the enforced closeness of the cot. Seeming to anticipate the problem, Daryl moved the arm she wasn't holding down and twisted his body enough to tuck some of the cover tightly down between her and the offending wall. Carol smiled to herself and kissed his chest in response—a silent word of thanks.

"I didn't know you were awake," she said.

"Haven't been to sleep," he responded.

"New people in the prison?" Carol asked. She knew from the arrival of Tyreese and his group that new people got Daryl on edge for a little while.

He hummed at her.

"I'm not sure they're all sane, but...I don't think they're dangerous," Carol said. "Maybe—maybe Abraham is a little unpredictable."

Daryl chuckled.

"I ain't scared of none of 'em," he said. "We need the damn hands to get that second set of fences done. We'll need 'em too if we gotta make repairs quick. Keep from having to hit the road ourselves. The damn Governor takes out too much of the prison and we're on our way to D.C. too, our asses in our hands."

"Is that why you wanted them to stay?" Carol asked.

Daryl was quiet. Carol did the only thing she could at the moment and accepted that as response enough. He wanted them to stay because he was thinking about what they had to do. He was thinking about what they might have to do in the future. The more hands they had, the better off they were when it came to getting things done. The more minds, too, that were involved in making plans, the more likely those plans were to cover all possible points of view.

More people meant more chances that more of them survived and kept the safest place they'd found as of yet.

Daryl was quiet long enough that Carol thought he'd fallen asleep. She closed her eyes, snuggled once more into her position, and then he made a humming noise.

"Got kids," he said. "Couldn't turn 'em out with the damn kids. Don't know what would've happened to 'em out there."

Carol felt her chest catch. Though most of her earlier emotions over the two young girls—girls she hadn't even allowed herself to learn the names of yet—were under control, it didn't mean that she didn't still have some of the emotions bubbling around inside.

"Except we do," she offered finally, barely putting voice behind the words.

Daryl's response was to move the arm she was pinning to the bed just enough to scratch at her affectionately with his fingertips, barely making contact with her body. It was some small sign of comfort. Carol already knew that what was on her mind was on his mind as well. He didn't have to say it. It was understood.

"We know more now," Carol said. "We've got more people. Better people. People who know what they're doing. Now? We'd do better...I'd do better..."

"You ain't done nothing wrong in the first damn place," Daryl said quickly and sharply. It was the first of his words that echoed in the cell and probably drifted out to bother someone else. He hummed, almost like he was apologizing. Then he spoke again. "Do a lot of shit different now," he mused. "Wouldn't let Rick go after her. Wouldn't leave it to him."

"You did what you could do," Carol pointed out. "It doesn't matter," she added, swallowing down the growing lump in her throat. "It's done. It doesn't matter. We'll just—keep them safe now. Carl. Judith. The baby? The— _girls_. We'll just keep them safe now."

"If we gotta run..." Daryl started.

"We don't leave anyone," Carol said quickly and sharply.

Daryl's response to her words was to rub at her arm.

"Was gonna say," he said quietly, "we don't leave no one. They ain't dead until we see them dead. We get to the meeting point, and somebody ain't there? And nobody's seen 'em go? We'll go back for them. Deal?"

"Deal," Carol said quietly.

"Just you and me if we gotta," Daryl added.

Carol hummed her agreement with this.

"But—don't wait around," Daryl said. "We gotta go, you go. We'll go back, but don't wait around."

Carol laughed to herself. Daryl, though he wouldn't say it flat out—at least not usually—had been terrified that she'd become, somehow, "misplaced" ever since he'd found her in the tombs and everyone else had given up on her to the point that they'd dug her grave and filled the empty space in with dirt to make a show of it. He remembered all too well, as did Carol, that it could've been her that was left behind on the farm, as surely as Andrea had been.

Except he'd come back for her.

"I won't wait," Carol said. "Because we'll come back. I won't wait—but you better be right behind me. Because I _will_ come back."

Daryl laughed quietly.

"Maybe I'll wait then," he teased. "Just to see you save my ass."


	48. Chapter 48

**AN: Here we are, another chapter. More to come soon.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Who's baby is it?" The young woman, Noelle was her name, asked Michonne as soon as she sat down. Michonne ignored the question. Unfortunately, this only made the woman believe that she was hard of hearing because she repeated the question with more volume behind it.

"Andrea's," Michonne responded, not even bothering to swallow the mouthful of food that she'd just put into her mouth.

Abraham sat next to Michonne and he laughed at her response.

"Unless she's the Virgin Mary, there was someone else involved," he commented.

"That's what I mean," Noelle said. Michonne was already deciding she didn't care for her. There was no reason, really, for this feeling. It was just too early and she was too tired for the somewhat perky chatter of the woman. "Who _else_?"

Michonne chewed over some of her food for a moment. It wasn't that good anyway.

"Mine," she said.

Abraham snorted.

"That's some trick," he commented.

Michonne decided, at that moment, that she was pretty much done with breakfast. It might be the most important meal of the day, but she could do without.

"Yep," she muttered, getting up and taking her food with her. She stopped by the table where Andrea was sitting with Carol, already sandwiched between several of the others that typically got put on the same jobs as she did, and without saying anything Michonne raked her food into Andrea's plate. Then she thanked Carol for the meal, that technically she hadn't eaten, and made her way toward the fences to get started on the days tasks of working on the "back up" fences.

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"Territorial?"

The word made Michonne jump. She'd been too deep in her thoughts. In hindsight, it was a bad idea at any rate. If she was going to be working outside the gates, she really needed to work on getting back into the habit of always being on. That was one of the dangers of living in the prison. It was one of the dangers of protected life. They got comfortable. They felt safe. They let their guards down. It would get them killed.

Michonne snapped her head in the direction of the word that had reminded her that this wasn't the world for daydreaming. Abraham dropped a load of the metal pipes they were driving in the ground, wire run between them, almost on her feet.

"What?" Michonne asked, not trying to hide her irritation at his presence.

"You're territorial?" He asked. "Back in the gates and circle the blonde every hour on the hour. Is that to make sure nobody else gets close to her?"

Michonne felt her stomach do an odd twist. Though she may know her routine at this point, she didn't really think about other people observing what she did or having thoughts about it. She also didn't realize it was that obvious.

"I don't owe you an explanation," Michonne said.

"You don't," Abraham agreed. "And it's no skin off my ass if you don't tell me. I'm just being a damn conversationalist. We're stuck together until spring."

Michonne sighed.

She could remember Andrea's complaints in Woodbury about how she was acting. Andrea suggested that the reason that she didn't like it in Woodbury was because she was determined not to like it. She'd suggested that if Michonne had bothered to get to know someone there, she'd find a reason to want to stay. She'd suggested that it might be Michonne's overall attitude that made her somewhat off-putting to everyone.

And Andrea might have been right. Michonne could at least argue that, even if talking to him wouldn't have made her fall in love with the Governor, talking to him would have at least given her more ammunition. Maybe a better attitude and a better relationship with the people of Woodbury would have gone a long way to getting Andrea to listen to her—I'm saying this because I believe it, not just because I'm bitter and dislike everyone we come into contact with.

"She feels like she needs to prove herself right now," Michonne said. "Which is stupid," she muttered, lowering her voice a little. "And—I'm making sure she doesn't do anything to prove herself at her expense."

"What is she proving herself for?" Abraham asked.

Michonne just shook her head.

"Baby's old man?" Abraham asked.

Michonne couldn't be entirely sure if the question was linked to the original line of questioning or if he was simply back to wanting to know about things. It didn't matter anyway. He'd find out eventually. Maggie was like the information fairy and it wouldn't take long for her to tell everyone that was new in the prison everything that had happened—entirely true or not.

Michonne had nothing to hide.

"Sperm donor," she offered, grabbing for one of the pipes. Abraham picked up the end of it before she could start to drag it and he followed her to the next place that it needed to go into the ground, the starting holes already dug for them. "The psycho? The man that's trying to kill us?"

Abraham looked at her and she tipped her head. She had to repeat the gesture twice for him to understand what she was saying, but he must have gotten it because his expression changed. He laughed quietly to himself, and shook his head slightly, but he didn't ask the question that Michonne expected. He didn't ask her how it had happened. He didn't ask her antyhign about it at all. She was shocked by that, but she was also relieved.

He cleared his throat when they headed back for the next pipe.

"So— _dad_ —were you and the little woman hoping for a boy or a girl?" He asked.

Michonne caught herself actually smirking at his tone. It wasn't sincere, at least not entirely.

"Right now," she said, "just hoping for a human."

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Andrea rolled the wagon out one of the side doors and in the direction of the bus. When she reached the bus, Glenn was standing there waiting on her.

"Carol said this is the last of it," Andrea said.

"Too much more and we wouldn't have room for everyone," Glenn said in response.

Andrea didn't know how much food was packed onto the bus, or how much other supplies might be there, but she was sure that there was a decent amount. She'd rolled a good bit of it out there.

Carol's idea was simple. They had a few "plans" in place should the Governor come. The first plan, of course, was that they would do their best to kill the man. They'd take him out and then he'd be nothing that anyone had to worry about any longer. Just a thing of the past that everyone could entirely forget.

 _In theory._

They weren't foolish enough to believe, though, that such a thing was guaranteed. There was no telling when he would come. There was no telling how he would come. There was no telling who would come with him. There were too many factors that could change things for them to be left with only one plan. So they had a few others in place too.

The next best organized plan was that they would take the bus, which they were able to load easily through a side door from the prison, and they could drive out of there. If things went off like they planned, they could get out without even having to go past him. They'd just abandon the prison—abandon their home—and they'd go to wherever the road took them. Although, with the entrance of the new group and their strong insistence of what the future would hold, it looked like they'd be heading toward Washing D.C. if they were going anywhere at all. The bus, then, was being stocked with all their "extras". That way, should they flee, they wouldn't be stuck in the bad situation of immediately having to look for supplies. They could get by for a little while on what they had there.

The third plan, or what Andrea liked to think of as the third plan, was that something went wrong with both of the first two plans and it was a free for all. Basically it would be a case of every man for himself and run for your lives. They had plotted meeting points at a number of distances from the prison, but getting there was up to each of them.

Andrea considered that the most likely plan since, at least in her experience, that's how they'd handled things before. And she had a feeling that, if anyone were to miss the bus—literally or figuratively, it would more than likely be her.

"We've got enough to live like kings for a week," Andrea said. "Carol says if we're careful, two weeks. If we cut back—three?"

"Two would be pushing it," Glenn declared. "But—we all appreciate her enthusiasm. You'll get the kids on the bus?"

"That's the plan," Andrea said. "Well—Beth and I'll help if I'm in the prison at the time."

Glenn moved to start unloading things off the bus and Andrea followed suit. He waved her away, but she ignored him.

"It's a bag of rice," she commented. "If I can't get the bag of rice on the bus? I can't get Judith on the bus. And then? I'm really no use to anyone."

Glenn didn't say anything, but he did let her heave up the bag. He waved for her to go in front of him and she mounted the steps and walked to the back of the bus to add her bag to the supplies that was already loaded there. When she turned back, Glenn was coming down the aisle with two large cans in his arms so she slipped into the seat as best she could to allow him to pass and put the heavy cans down. When he backed up, freeing the aisle for her to make her way back out the seat, he surprised her by stopping instead of heading back down the aisle to exit the bus.

Andrea straightened herself up. She was caught, for the moment, between Glenn and the back of the bus—the door covered by a mountain of supplies—and her heart kicked up to an abnormal pace. She trusted Glenn, but she no longer found any comfort at all in anything that felt like being confined.

"We're probably going to have to run," Glenn said.

Andrea shook her head at him.

"If we get a clear shot on him," Andrea said, but she didn't get to finish. Glenn cut her off.

"We're probably going to have to run," Glenn repeated. This time there was more force behind his words. There was more urgency that he should listen to her. "We already know that—on the road? It isn't going to be easy. Especially not for some people."

He looked conflicted for a moment and then he shook his head.

"Hershel, Judith..." he ticked off.

"Me?" Andrea offered, finishing for him. "Listen, I get it. I'm a weak link. This wasn't the best time to get pregnant and it wasn't in my plan but—I'm trying to make the best of a bad situation. We have to run? And I'm not here? Go...I got by. I'll get by again."

Glenn opened his mouth, started to speak, and then stopped again. He repeated the action at least three times, his hands resting on the seats of either side of the bus aisle, and the he sighed and shook his head again.

"That wasn't what I meant," he said. "That wasn't—what I was going to say."

Andrea simply raised her eyebrows at him.

"I was going to say—that it isn't going to be easy," Glenn said. "But—we're family. We're in this together. And—we're not leaving you. Not this time."

"If I'm not here..." Andrea said.

"You'll be here," Glenn said. "Even—even if I've got to find you myself? You'll be here. And you'll be on this bus with the rest of us. We're _not_ leaving you behind."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"Maggie's going to agree with you on that?" Andrea asked.

"Maggie doesn't hate you," Glenn said.

Andrea had to laugh at that too, but he adamantly shook his head.

"She doesn't," Glenn reiterated. "She hates him. And she hates this whole situation. And she hates what that might—what it might mean for us. For _all_ of us. But she doesn't hate you."

"She just blames me," Andrea said.

"She used to blame you," Glenn said. "She's—Hershel's talked to her. I've talked to her. She doesn't blame you anymore. She hates the situation. But she doesn't hate you. I can promise you that."

"I guess we'll see..." Andrea said.

"We're not leaving you behind," Glenn repeated. "I just—wanted you to know that. If something happens? Get to the bus as fast as you can. But—if you can't? We're not leaving you behind. I promise you that."

With those words, Glenn turned around and started back down the aisle of the bus as Andrea had expected him to do earlier. His head was hung a little this time. The whole thing was weighing on him—or at least something was. Andrea didn't want to presume that it had anything to do with her.

As he reached the end of the aisle, his hand going to rest on the front seat as he turned his body to prepare to go down the slightly steep bus stairs, Andrea called out to him.

"Glenn!" She said. He turned and looked at her. "Thanks," she offered. He simply smiled and finished going down the last of the steps. Andrea waited a moment, glanced back at the supplies that they hoped they didn't have to use any time soon, and then followed him.


	49. Chapter 49

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol was getting ready to put the stew on for dinner and she couldn't help but think to herself that this would be an evening when the stew would just seem _perfect_. It would seem _right_. The chill in the air that had made her finally give in and button the oversized sweater she'd found in one of the clothing boxes, probably meant for a man three times her size, was the kind of chill that welcomed something like a warm stew to eat.

Beyond that, she knew that everyone would enjoy it. There was hardly a soul that hadn't been hard at work that day. The chill was driving them on, surely, but there was something else in the air. Maybe it was the stirring up of the long dead memory of the comfort and happiness of holidays. Maybe it was the quiet peace that the chill brought on—there hardly even seemed to be Walkers stirring around outside the fences at the moment. Whatever it was, though, something had everyone diving into their work with more zest than usual, and Carol knew that would mean that she'd be something of a superstar when she told them all that the hot and fairly hearty stew was waiting to warm them when they were done.

She left her pot, too heavy for her to lift alone now that all her "helpers" were busy doing other tasks, and walked quickly across the yard to where Daryl was working. He'd been coming in and out of the fences all day hauling heavy bags over his shoulders. Those who couldn't do heavy work had been outside, in a small patch to watch each other's backs, combing the floor of the nearby wooded area for nuts, dried berries, half rotted fruit, or anything else that might be of use to feed their pigs. Others had been responsible for raking together straw and dead grass for feed. Daryl had been one of the ones hauling it back inside the fences to either use or store away.

As Carol walked toward him, Daryl noticed her. For a moment there was just a quick jerk of his head, the movement he made to distinguish what it was that was moving in his peripheral vision. Then he turned his head back and looked at her head on, a small smile curling up the one corner of his mouth.

"Sashayin' like you on a damn catwalk," he called.

Carol smiled to herself. Maybe there was something to that. Maybe there was something there that hadn't always been there. She'd never, as far as she'd known, sashayed before. But she felt different.

Maybe Daryl had a lot to do with it.

"You like what you see?" She responded, ignoring the regular and expected quick burn of her cheeks. It always accompanied her teasing him, but she was learning to push past it.

The smile grew a little.

"That damn sweater looks ridiculous," Daryl commented back.

"It's warm, though," Carol said.

At about that moment, she closed the distance between them. Daryl dropped the bag that he'd been holding over his shoulder—a bag that appeared to be heavy but seemed to haven't bothered him in the slightest, and he squared in front of her. Knowing what he expected, but wasn't always quite comfortable requesting, Carol closed the last little bit of space between them and puckered her lips at him in a silent request for the kiss that he wanted her to ask for. He obliged her with a quick and easy peck at her lips before he pulled away and immediately had to study the location of the bag on the ground instead of noticing if anyone might be around and watching them.

"I need you," Carol said.

Daryl's head shot back toward her and she smiled at him. He made a humming noise to go with his smirk.

"For that later," Carol said with a wink, the familiar burn returning. "I need you to move my pot. It's too heavy."

Daryl let out a breath with a loud rush of air. Then he chuckled.

"Move your pot. Do the heavy lifting. And then? Maybe later..." Daryl said.

"Maybe _definitely_ later," Carol said, wagging her eyebrows at him. "It's getting cold in the prison."

"Even colder in the guard tower," Daryl said. "But—you got your sweater."

"Maybe I want need it," Carol responded.

Daryl shook his head at her. It was the sign that he'd run out of things to say. He'd reached the end of the teasing that he could handle. He gestured with his hand back toward the area where Carol's fire was burning and waiting for the pot that he'd placed on it and Carol nodded and turned, starting back in that direction.

In the upper part of the yard, before they reached the pot, Carol greeted Andrea who was sitting and working on one of the projects that she'd been given. They'd brought in quite a few boxes of clothes, all grabbed willy nilly on a run, and she had the job of sorting them out into somewhat organized piles on a sheet on the ground. When she was done with that, should she finish and still be looking for tasks to do, Carol had gathered together a basket full of clothes that they had which required stitching. She assumed that the jobs would take Andrea a few days. She hadn't counted on, though, the fact that Eugene would be so keen to be Andrea's little assistant with everything.

"I believe Eugene has a crush," Carol whispered to Daryl as they walked toward the pot. "He's hanging around Andrea a lot."

"I think Eugene's got a crush on anything that keeps him from actually doing shit," Daryl said.

"Andrea's doing something," Carol said. She didn't mean it to come across as defensively as it naturally did, but she was quick to defend Andrea against anyone who might suggest that the small jobs she did weren't useful.

"It's fine for Andrea," Daryl said back quickly and maybe a little more loudly than he meant to. "Fine for her. She's knocked up and can't haul shit—I get that. He could do a little damn more than he's doin' though."

Carol hummed, she wasn't going to argue against that.

"Except Abraham wants him kept safe," Carol said.

"Wants his damn girlfriend tucked away," Daryl said. Carol clucked her tongue at him to scold him and he laughed to himself.

When they reached the fire, Carol gestured toward the pot that was put to the side so that she could assemble the ingredients for the stew without being burned by the flames. It wasn't an ideal way to cook, and she'd certainly made better food in her life than she sometimes made now, but she was learning and nobody complained too much. After all, most of them were just pleased to have all their meals prepared for them.

She helped him lift the pot and move it to the fire by the large handle and then she thanked him with another quick kiss that was much like the one she'd greeted him with. He offered her a smile once more and then he gestured a farewell to her with his hand and started to walk away—this time in the direction of Andrea. Carol assumed he was going to tease the blonde—Daryl being one of the few whose teasing she took as entirely innocent—and maybe to try to rile Eugene into actually being a working man for a day in his life. After all, he could at least pile things in the small storage shed they had and that would never even take him _near_ a Walker.

Carol stayed absorbed in daydreams and planning while she watched the stew. Every now and again someone passed by—inside to get some water, outside headed somewhere else, stopping by to ask a question or make a request for her to do something or get them something—and she spoke to them and broke her thoughts, but for the most part the time she spent cooking was time that she spent not focused on anything else. Mika, one of the young girls that had come with Abraham's group, joined her for a bit to prattle on about the stew and where the meat had come from and how she wished that they could hunt the animals without actually having to kill them, and Carol listened to her and entertained her speech. After all, she'd learned, a long time ago, how to listen to Sophia while she did a number of other things.

And the day crawled slowly on with everything running as it would in the quiet, crisp afternoon.

So Carol was as taken by surprise as everyone else was when the rumble of thunder started, low and long, and her first thought was that she needed to go for the cover she kept for the pot and hope that the rain that came—if it ever did—wasn't enough to extinguish her flames. The rumble didn't last long, though. It stopped after driving in a few of the people who were still outside gathering things. It stopped after it had simply brought about a bit of confusion over the clear skies.

And then it was replaced by something else.

The three vehicles came roaring down the small access road to the prison so fast that Carol's only response to their approach came in the form of an irregular heartbeat. She found herself paralyzed and frozen to her spot despite the fact that everything inside her immediately told her that all was not right. Slowly everyone seemed to be making their way to have a better view of what was happening—forgetting entirely the actions they'd rehearsed as the proper ways to deal with surprises such as this.

In an instant, they seemed to have come undone.

When the doors to the SUVs opened, though, Carol felt her muscles loosening. Somehow she was slowly gaining the ability to react again. Her heart picked up its pace, thundering in her chest, when she recognized the man that got out of one of them. Then the organ seemed to come to a screeching halt when he produced, along with the help of whoever the people with him were, Michonne from the backseat of one vehicle and Hershel from another. Both were bound and, immediately, they were brought to their knees on the ground. He was speaking, but at the moment Carol couldn't make out a single word that he was producing even if she knew it wasn't for the volume of his voice.

He had Michonne's sword. He had them on their knees. He had three SUVs and a handful of people. Careful shooting, if even Carol could get to a perch in the tower, would at least take him out before he could do anything at all.

But nobody was in the tower. Hardly anybody was armed with more than knives, and though Carol could see the guns from where she was—it would be difficult to get them without being seen. A glance at Daryl, though, moving his feet slowly with his upper body straight and tense told her that he was trying to do just that.

He was the first to move. He was the first to speak. It was as if nobody else was even aware yet what was happening. Carol and Daryl were alone, for a moment, in a world where everyone else was frozen and they were watching it unfold.

Until Maggie's scream for her father echoed out and seemed to make a few trips around them. She repeated the scream and Carol heard another scream, but it was muffled before it even finished. Standing, frozen, Andrea covered her own mouth—don't scream. Don't give it away if he hasn't noticed you yet. There wasn't any escape, though, because he'd notice if they all fled for the prison at this point.

And then the thunder returned. This time not so low. Not so distant. Not a quiet rumble. It still signaled a storm, though, that Carol felt in her bones. The tank, then, came slowly rolling toward the prison, ignoring the access road, as it made its way through the overgrown grass of the field.

He'd arrived. Despite their preparations, he'd caught them all by surprise. Despite their plans, they had none active and in place. And he had two of their own.


	50. Chapter 50

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Everything seemed to be happening in a fog. Andrea could see everything, she could hear some of it, but it was like it was just outside of her reach. It was just outside of her reality. Beyond the fences, the Governor was there with a small group of ten or twelve people—a dozen might even be being generous. But it wasn't the size of his group that had them all terrified.

In front of him, bound and on their knees, were Michonne and Hershel. The Governor stood to the side of them wielding Michonne's katana as though it were a baseball bat or a golf club. Right now it hung idly over his shoulder, but it was clear what he intended to do if he didn't get his way—and maybe even if it did. The sound they'd all heard earlier, quickly dismissing it as thunder or proof of some approaching storm, belonged to a tank—a tank who was ready to fire on them all. A tank that, probably, would blow up most of the prison if not all of it.

There simply didn't appear to be any way to get out of this situation without losing most of their lives.

Rick strode quickly but calmly down the yard and toward the gates. He was in the lower half to begin with and didn't have far to go to put only the fences and a short piece of ground between himself and the Governor. He stood facing him from his point in the prison yard.

"Let them go," was the first thing that Rick said. It was loud enough that it carried up to where Andrea was standing. She heard it through the fog that had settled in on her brain. She flicked her eyes to the side, where Daryl was slowly trying to move without moving to get to their weapons, but she doubted that they'd be of any use—startling the Governor or beginning to shoot had just as good of a chance of ending badly as it did of ending well. The Governor made no response to Rick's demand. At least, he made no response that Andrea could hear. "You have our attention," Rick's voice boomed out again. "What do you want?"

"We've come for the prison," the Governor said. Andrea heard that as clearly as she'd heard Rick's words. "We'll give you an hour to clear out. That's a fair amount of time. It's more time than you'd give. You take your people and you go."

"Go where?" Rick responded.

"That isn't up to me to decide," the Governor said.

"Let Hershel and Michonne go," Rick said. "We can talk about this. We can—work this out."

"There's nothing to work out, Rick," the Governor responded. "There's only time for you to pack. You and your people? You've got an hour—and the clock's ticking. You're not out of here by then? They die. You do too. I don't think that's what you want."

"We've got children here," Rick said. "We can't go on the road with them. They won't survive if we do."

Andrea couldn't tell if the Governor said something or if he was simply shuffling around and shifting his weight where he stood. Daryl had possession of some of the rifles now and he was moving, stiff bodied, while he tried to hand them out. Behind Andrea, while she stayed frozen place, she heard him offer a weapon to Eugene. She heard the man start to formulate some ridiculous response as to why he shouldn't take the weapon and she knew that he was probably right. He'd be just as likely to shoot one of them as he would be to shoot the Governor. He'd be just as likely to find a way to accidentally kill himself with the gun.

Andrea turned her head just enough to catch a view of Daryl and she hissed at him. She reached her arm back and waved her fingers at him, gesturing that she wanted the weapon. He hesitated a moment, but seeing that the conversation below wasn't going anywhere, he finally stepped forward and Andrea felt the gun in her hand. She wrapped her hand around the barrel. Then she felt Daryl's breath blowing on her face as he leaned close to her from where he was standing just behind her.

"You'll never hit him from here," Daryl said. "Not even if you're damn Annie Oakley. Gotta get closer. And don't you start shooting until you know there ain't no other way."

"I have to try to end this," Andrea hissed back, barely moving her lips with the formation of the words.

"You try to end it now, you're just gonna start somethin' else," Daryl warned. "Hold your fire. Rick'll let us know when it's time."

Andrea might have argued with him. She might have raised the rifle and, stubbornly, tried to take the shot that even her gut knew that she wouldn't make, but she stopped because she heard her name. It drifted up from the lower part of the prison yard. It drifted up through the hum of the conversation that she'd been ignoring. And then it was repeated. This time louder, and this time with some attempt to get her attention. Andrea turned her direction back to Rick and saw that he was looking back at her. He was gesturing toward her—a gesture of welcome but she knew it was anything but that. He was inviting her to come down the yard and show herself if she hadn't already been seen.

Andrea swallowed and readjusted the rifle so that she was holding it correctly, across her body. She didn't aim it, and she didn't threaten. She simply let it be seen. Then she started the walk down the yard, her blood thundering in her ears as she went so that she couldn't have heard anything else even if she'd been listening to it.

She was a bargaining chip. She didn't have to hear the words to know it to be so. She was something the Governor would want—or at least she had something he would want—and she was something Rick would be more than willing to do without. She should have felt offended. She should have felt terrified. Yet, even the fear she felt was dulled slightly by the fog that had seemed to settle into her mind for a moment. If she was the one that ended this, one way or another, she'd take that role.

"You force us out of here, you kill us, and you're killing your own," Rick said. Andrea was close enough now that she couldn't not hear the words. "You kill your own because we'll never make it on the road. Andrea won't make it if she delivers in a ditch somewhere. In a dirty barn. It's too hard for babies. My daughter won't make it. Yours either."

Andrea ignored that her breathing had naturally kicked up a notch. For the first time, she felt genuinely apologetic to her baby—a baby that she still actively tried to ignore at times—because she couldn't keep it safe. She couldn't offer it anything. Everything she'd given it was only because it had taken it. It wasn't truly an offer from her. And now? She may very well be condemning it to death before it had ever even known life.

Andrea felt Rick's hand wrap around the upper part of her arm and pull her toward him, the last few steps, before she even realized she'd gotten as close to him as she had. She focused on keeping her eyes straight ahead at the moment. She didn't want to look at Michonne—she couldn't. And she didn't want to look at him either. She could still remember the last time she looked at him and it was a memory she could do without repeating.

"We can make this work," Rick said. "We can live together. All of us! One group. We can forget what happened. We can put it all in the past. We all have a chance to start over. We have a chance to start again. We can come back from what we've done."

"I don't think so," the Governor said. His voice, now, was as loud as if he were standing beside Andrea. The sound of it—so close and so real and entirely outside of her memory—made her stomach churn. "My family wouldn't sleep well with you under the same roof as them," the Governor said. "I wouldn't sleep well."

"You'd kill your own child?" Rick asked. "Send—send it out to be born in a field somewhere?"

"Not exactly," the Governor responded. "You have someone important to me and—as I see it, I have two people important to you. Send Andrea to the gates."

"You'll let Hershel and Michonne go?" Andrea asked, this time usurping Rick's role as loudspeaker for the group.

She glanced at him. For a brief second she made eye contact with him. She willed herself not to shiver with the sensation that it sent up her spine and she swallowed repeatedly and quickly to force down the gagging sensation in her throat.

He smiled—that smile that was never a sincere smile. He'd smiled the same smile at her every time she came to consciousness in that hell-room. That smile would forever be burned into her mind.

"Send Andrea to the gates," he repeated, ignoring her and redirecting his comment back to Rick.

"Send Hershel and Michonne," Rick challenged.

"Two for one, never was a good deal," the Governor said. "Not for the seller."

"Two for two," Rick said. "Andrea brings your baby with her. It's an even trade."

Andrea felt her muscles tense. What would he do with her if he got her? Keep her somewhere—tied up—until the baby came? Then he'd cut her throat as soon as the baby was born. Maybe not even then. Maybe he'd just wait long enough to take the baby himself. Maybe he'd keep her like a pet to feed the baby—maybe not. Andrea knew, though, his affections for her—if they'd even existed—were all gone now.

"We don't have to do this," Rick said. "None of it. You put down your weapons. Come in the gates yourself. We'll work this out. We'll make it work. We can all have a home here. We can all—have our families. We can all—be safe."

"Or I can take the prison," the Governor challenged. "And my family can be safe after yours is dead."

Rick hummed.

"But you run the risk," Rick said. "You run the risk of losing your family. The ones out there and—certainly the ones in here. You need Hershel. You need a doctor. Andrea needs him. The baby. You start killing us? Bullets going anywhere? Who they hit is anybody's guess. You—you with him—are all of you willing to die when I'm promising you that you can live?"

Andrea saw those outside the fence, the so-called "family" of the Governor exchanging glances. Their faces said that they weren't ready to die. Their faces said they wanted to take Rick's offer. Short of two men—one of which was manning the tank and one who was holding a rifle—they all seemed to want to do exactly what Rick was proposing.

And, finally, someone voiced their opinion.

The Governor, as he was known for doing, looked like he was listening to the man who spoke. He look like he was considering his words. Andrea wondered if he'd shoot the man on the spot for his insolence, but he didn't.

In fact, it looked like he was listening to him.

"How do we know we'll be safe?" The Governor asked. "What kind of—insurance do we have if we return the hostages?"

Rick, who was still holding the top of Andrea's arm as though she might run away from him, shuffled some and pulled her along with his somewhat erratic steps.

"You'll have to trust me," Rick said. "That's—all there is to it. You'll just have to trust me. But—we're in a position where there has to be some trust. Any other way and we both lose. We _all_ lose."

From outside the fence, there was a din of voices all speaking at once. Andrea watched as the Governor turned from where he stood and walked to gather with these people. These people who blindly followed him just like she had. These people who still believed that he was a good man—who didn't know what he would become when the time was right, if this wasn't that time.

She strained her ears to hear what they were saying, but she couldn't hear anything clearly. She didn't need to. Their glances back to the prison made it clear. They weren't concerned with her life, her baby's life, or even the lives of everyone in the prison. They could and would kill them all without concern—that's what they'd come there knowing they might have to do. Their reason for wanting in was selfish. Their reason for wanting this deal was simply to guarantee their own lives. It was every bit as selfish that of anyone else that was present.

It seemed like their negotiations went on for hours, but eventually the Governor turned back and closed the few steps back toward Rick that he'd put between them before.

"I'm going to have to trust you," he said, his voice lower than before. "And you're going to have to trust me."

He gestured with his head toward someone and they went to wrestle Michonne and Hershel to their feet. Two people took their places behind them to lead them.

"Send Andrea to open the gates," the Governor said. Andrea caught eye contact with him once more and he smiled at her again—that same smile that she once had believed to be sincere. She swallowed. "We're home."


	51. Chapter 51

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Send Andrea to unlock the gate," the Governor said when everything, apparently, was signed and sealed. Andrea didn't move from her spot. She wasn't sure, actually, that she could move from her spot. She'd locked her knees to keep them from shaking her whole frame and now she feared trying to make them do anything beyond hold her in place. She could barely breathe.

"Sasha and Tyreese are unlocking it now," Rick said. He didn't move his hand from where it was holding the upper part of Andrea's arm. Andrea didn't drop the rifle she was holding across her chest.

It ran through her mind, quickly, that if she acted fast enough she could move the gun and shoot the man. The fence, however, might deflect the bullet and, without a doubt, as soon as a shot was fired another would follow—and then they'd be getting into what they were trying to avoid.

Everything seemed to be happening around Andrea. Outside the fences, there was still some signs that people were unsure of what they were really doing. Michonne and Hershel were pushed toward the gates. Rick commanded that they be sent through first.

The Governor repeated his request that Andrea be part of the "welcoming committee."

Before she could say or do anything, she felt an arm wrap around her waist. Naturally, and actually without giving it any thought, she put her arm around the person that had approached her from behind and accepted the support that they were offering. It was Abraham. Without saying anything, he walked with her toward the gates and she stood beside him, his arm still around her and her rifle still hugged close to her even though it went unused, while the Governor's people came through leading Michonne and Hershel.

The Governor followed right behind them, the rest of his people filing in behind him. Andrea didn't know how she expected to react to seeing him—up close and without even a barrier between them—but she didn't expect to suddenly feel distinctly like she was dying. Her chest felt like it was closing up. She couldn't get air in, and she couldn't even tell herself to gasp for it. The knees she'd locked earlier were doing less for her now than they'd been doing before and she was silently grateful for Abraham's support since it was the only thing, she was sure, that kept her from hitting the ground. Immediately he moved toward her, but she was surprised when, in front of her rifle, another rifle crossed. Quietly, Abraham drew a line in front of her with the gun.

"We're not on friendly terms just yet," he said. He offered nothing else.

The Governor chuckled and looked at Andrea before Rick's voice interrupted the scene.

"Drop your weapons," Rick said. "Everyone. Guns in a pile. We're coming at this without firearms. We're coming at this from a position of peace. We'll handle this with words and agreements, not with fighting."

"Can you drop yours," Abraham asked Andrea, quietly and directly into her ear when he'd dropped his on the ground beside him. The Governor moved away from her, but Andrea still felt frozen.

"Mmmm mmm..."she hummed.

Abraham reached and took the gun in his hand.

"Just let go of it," he said. Somehow Andrea obeyed him. She remained, at the moment, staring straight ahead. With her pounding heart and the limited intake of air that she was getting, she felt like her vision was narrowing. She felt like it was darkening—but she didn't really care to alarm anyone. She didn't want to look at anyone. Not at Rick. Not at the Governor. And certainly, not at Michonne. "Rick?" Abraham announced Rick's name loudly enough that the word travelled over any of the other noises around them. Before he could say whatever was on his mind, though, it was Daryl's voice that came out, almost as though the two of them were sharing some kind of mental wavelength from across the yard as Daryl approached.

"We'll see the new—people—to D block?" Daryl offered. "Then we'll talk?"

"D block?" Someone from the Governor's group asked. Andrea didn't turn to try to put physical appearance to the sound of their voice.

"It's a cell block," Rick said. "We're in C. You'll be in D. That way we can—live together without having to be up under each other. At least—until we're all ready."

"You mean until you're ready?" The Governor asked.

"Until we're all ready," Rick responded. "Your people don't know my people. My people don't know yours. We all need space. Just until we get things sorted out. This way—we'll get you settled in."

Without turning her head, Andrea could see the people moving. They followed Rick as he led them up toward the prison. She heard the metallic slide and clank of the prison gates as Tyreese and Sasha—or someone—slid them shut and locked them. She heard the pounding sound of feet as those from the upper yard rushed toward them all. She heard the clattering sounds of someone collecting weapons. She heard Hershel's voice as he said something to Maggie—but it sounded far away.

She felt it all spin around and she felt the hard dig of fingers into her legs and she felt the world rock and sway but there was nothing that she could do about it. There wasn't anything that she was sure she wanted to do about it. She just let it go wherever it was going and she went with it.

It was all out of her control now at any rate.

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Andrea came back to herself some when the world stopped the swaying to and fro that it had been doing. The metallic sound that filled her ears jolted her heart and she sucked in a breath, some noise escaping her, before she realized that it was only the sound of her bedsprings.

"Mich?" She got out, the first words she'd attempted to say for some time. She wasn't even sure if the word escaped her lips. Maybe it had only been formed in her mind and stayed there.

"I'm here," she heard, though, as true as any call and response. "I'm here. And you've got to breathe."

"I'm sorry," Andrea responded. Some question came to her about the apology, but she didn't respond. She wasn't sure if she was apologizing because the Governor had come, because he was staying, or because she had apparently forgotten to breathe.

There was some flurry of activity and Andrea was immediately aware that there were too many bodies in the cell. It was too crowded. She was lost in a sea of people and she didn't even care to open her eyes and make out who they were. Michonne was there, somewhere in the sea of them, but there were others.

 _Carol_.

Andrea immediately identified her voice. She wasn't addressing Andrea, but she was talking about her. She was talking about the whole thing. She was speaking as though Andrea wasn't there and as though she couldn't hear her.

 _What was Rick thinking? Anyone could have expected something to happen. It was the first time Andrea had seen him since...They should have done something. Someone should have done something._

And then Michonne promised her that, somehow, something would be done—but she didn't elaborate.

Andrea drank what she was told to drink and she shivered a little at the sensation of the damp rag that was wiped across her face. And then, seemingly as quickly as the cell had filled, it emptied entirely.

"Mich?" Andrea asked, sitting up and opening her eyes for the first time.

"I'm here," Michonne responded. "And there you are."

She smiled at Andrea. The smile seemed out of place at the moment. It seemed out of place with the situation, but Andrea accepted it. She almost choked on it, like Michonne's expression could get stuck in the back of her throat.

"There you are," Michonne repeated, leaning from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed and bringing her forehead to touch it to Andrea's. She sighed and then she leaned enough to softly kiss Andrea's lips, breaking the kiss before Andrea was even really able to respond to the gesture. "You scared me."

Andrea laughed to herself and brought her hand up to catch the one that Michonne put to her face.

"Me?" Andrea responded. "You're the one that—Mich..."

Michonne shushed her, hissing out the sound as though Andrea were a small child that needed to be told it was time to be quiet and calm.

"What happened?" Andrea asked.

"We were out with the others," Michonne said softly, all the while stroking Andrea's hair. "Hershel and I went ahead—a little farther out. We didn't come in with the others on the last load. I don't know, really, what happened. I heard something. I thought it was Walkers. He knocked me out. Someone knocked me out. When I woke up? We were in the car."

Andrea felt herself choking up. She fought against it.

"He could've..." she started, but she was shushed again.

"He didn't," Michonne said. She sighed again. "He didn't. He didn't do anything—and my head doesn't even hurt. How are you?"

Michonne backed off of Andrea and her hands started a strange trial from Andrea's neck down her body. She searched her like she was looking for missing parts. Like she was looking for some visible sign of injury. As far as Andrea knew, she wasn't going to find anything.

"How are you?" Michonne repeated, quietly and absentmindedly, like she wasn't even aware she was breathing out the words. "Your blood pressure went through the roof—you have to rest. It isn't good for you. It isn't good for her. And she's not ready yet...it's not time yet."

Andrea finally caught Michonne's hands, stilling them, aware that maybe Michonne wasn't even thinking about her actions. She was working through her own things—just as Andrea had to—and this was how it was manifesting itself.

"I'm OK, Mich," Andrea said. "I'm OK."

Michonne looked at Andrea, concern creasing her forehead.

"Are you in any pain?" Michonne asked. "Anything at all?"

Andrea shook her head.

"I'm fine," she said. "I—couldn't breathe. Out there? I couldn't breathe. But now? I'm fine. I feel fine."

Slowly it washed back over Andrea. The conversation. The fact that Rick had invited them to stay here, in the prison. The look on the Governor's face when he realized that Andrea was alive and that she was, very obviously, carrying his child. She shivered.

"He's here," Andrea said.

Michonne nodded her head.

"He's here, Michonne," Andrea said. "And he's—in our home."

Michonne shook her head.

"You don't need to worry about that," Michonne said. "He's in D-Block. They're under lock and key. And—he's not getting near you."

Andrea shook her head.

"D-Block isn't going to hold him," Andrea said. "Eventually they're going to want out. They're not going to be satisfied with being kept as prisoners."

Michonne leaned closer to Andrea. She caught her face and held it so that Andrea couldn't have looked away from her even if that's what she'd intended to do.

"He will not touch you," Michonne said with enough assertion in her voice that Andrea couldn't have said it was untrue, even if she'd wanted to. "And—we'll think of something."

Andrea laughed to herself. The last part wasn't as sure as the first part.

"What do you think we're going to do, Mich?" Andrea asked. "Rick isn't going to let..."

"Rick can't control everything," Michonne said. "Maybe he did the right thing. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he did the only thing there was to do. But he doesn't control everything. And we'll—we'll think of something."

Michonne stood up and Andrea saw that, in the commotion of everything, she'd acquired her katana again. She took it from the corner of the cell. Then she pulled something out of her pocket.

"Where are you going?" Andrea asked.

"We have a meeting," Michonne said. "You're going to stay here and rest—but don't worry about anything." She tied a scarf to the bars by the door.

"You don't have to leave that, Michonne," Andrea said. "I don't need it."

"Just in case you do," Michonne said. She reached and grabbed the door of the cell, pulling it closed and Andrea got up as quickly as she could. "Lie back down," Michonne commanded. "I have the key. I'm coming back. This is just—a precaution."

Andrea walked over to the doors and looped her hands around the bars. She leaned her face against the bars.

"I'm a prisoner now?" She asked.

"Until he's gone?" Michonne said. "We all are."

She leaned and kissed Andrea through the bars, this time giving her enough time to respond and return the gesture, before she walked off. Andrea stood at the bars and listened to her boots on the floor until she couldn't make them out anymore. Then she touched the scarf that was left hanging there, twined it between her fingers, and returned to sit on the bed, already wondering what would be decided—and how they would handle the wolf in their midst.


	52. Chapter 52

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"I'll kill him," Michonne said. "If you're having some kind of moral dilemma? Let me do it. I promise you that I won't lose a minute of sleep over it."

She was losing patience with the conversation and it was clear that she wasn't the only one. There was a decent amount of squirming around in the group and it was evident that it was coming from the presence of the Governor and the question of what to do with him.

"We can't invite them in, promise them sanctuary, and then kill them," Rick said blankly.

"You invited them in," Michonne said. "You invited them in and you promised them sanctuary. Nobody else had a thing to do with it."

"Your life was on the line," Rick said. "You and Hershel? He could've killed you both. And that doesn't even begin to cover what he could have done to the rest of us. Now? The tank is still out there, but nobody's prepared to fire it."

"Maybe we don't kill him," Daryl offered. "Maybe we just—lock him up?"

"He's locked up," Rick said. "They're all locked up. But how long do you think they're going to be content to be there? Relying on us for everything? Essentially being our prisoners?"

"I meant—lock _him_ up," Daryl said. He looked a little offended to have his words misinterpreted. Or, maybe, he was just irritated with the whole turn of events.

Since they'd gathered there, there hadn't been a single person that was truly in favor of keeping the Governor and his people in the prison. Rick was arguing that they couldn't go against their word to provide them a safe haven—or rather they couldn't go against his word to provide that—but he didn't even seem too convinced of his own statements. He didn't want the man around his children. That clearly showed, at least to Michonne, that he didn't trust him either. Hershel was trying to take some moral high ground and suggest that the Governor might have changed—or that he might be capable of change—but even that argument didn't hold a lot of water when he pointed out that he was concerned about the safety and well-being of everybody if the man were left to roam at will.

"Put him in one of the cells alone. Lock him up," Daryl said, pacing around the space. Michonne understood the need to move about. She kept pacing, too, as a way to try to keep control of the feelings that were bubbling up inside of her.

"And when his group reacts?" Rick asked.

"We don't know that they will," Tyreese interjected. "When we were in Woodbury? A lot of people followed him because he was the leader. We did what we had to do to stay in Woodbury. We wanted to be safe. It didn't mean that we felt any real affection for the Governor."

"If we separate him from the people," Sasha said, picking up where her brother had left the words hanging, "then there's a chance that we can see what they're like without him. There's a chance that we can let them see what he's really like."

"So we lock him up and we let them go free?" Rick asked. "Listen—we can go off on some half-baked plan here. Whatever we decide to do? We've got to do it and we've got to stick by it. There are going to be repercussions and we're going to have to deal with them, no matter what we do. We have to present a unified front. It isn't going to look good if we're coming at this from different angles."

"Rick's right about that," Hershel said. "Whatever we do, we've got to do as a group. We've got to do it as a family. We've been too long divided by the Governor. It's caused a rift between us. That's not who we are and it's not who we want these new people seeing us as."

Michonne growled to herself. She sat down, meaning to actually stay there, but found that she couldn't. She popped back up out of the seat again as surely as if her ass had springs on it.

"Something to say?" Rick asked. It was enough to make Michonne consider how everyone might react if her "unified front" was to simply punch Rick in the face and relieve some of her tension that way. She didn't give into it, though.

"Actually, yes," Michonne said. "The reason that we haven't had a unified group is because everybody's looking for someone else to blame. Who brought the Governor here? Why is he here? Who should apologize for who's suffering? At the end of the day? He's here and he'd be here no matter what. I think they're right. Chances are the poor assholes that are with him don't even know why they're with him. He told them some things. He told them about this wonderful place that he had. A dream world. And then some big, bad people took that away from him. Now he just wants to find another safe place. He wants to make that happen for them."

"And anyone's going to want that," Sasha interjected. Michonne bit back her annoyance at being interrupted and, instead, nodded her agreement toward Sasha.

"Anyone's going to want that," Michonne echoed. "So we lock him away. We put him in his own cell. Sooner or later? He'll show his true colors, but at least then he's as secure as he can be. We keep them in the separate block for a few days. We make sure there are no clear wild cards. Then we can talk about letting them out."

"And if he can change," Carol said, finally finding her voice in all of this and giving a nudge to Hershel's belief system that they could all come back from what they'd done and would do in this world, "then we'll give him a chance to prove that."

"But not too soon," Michonne said. "He's sneaky. He says and does what he knows that people want him to do. He doesn't win people over by being himself. He knows how to bide his time. We've got to keep him in there at least long enough that it starts to get to him. Long enough that he starts to show who he really is."

"Until we drive him mad," Rick offered with a laugh.

"It's a short trip," Glenn said. "I think Michonne's right. Lock him up. Give the others a chance. I don't think he's going to change, but if he is? Let him do it in the safety and comfort of his own cell and without the backup of his people."

Now it was Rick's turn to pace. He cleared two laps around the space before he finally looked at all of them and not the floor.

"So this is what you want?" He asked. "You want me to—lock him up in a cell? Keep him as a prisoner? And tell the others they can share the prison with us as long as they turn against the man that they were following as a leader? It doesn't exactly inspire loyalty."

"Not turn against him," Ryan said. "Nobody said they had to turn against him. Did they?"

"No," Michonne said, "nobody said they had to turn against him. We just explain to them that, for safety reasons, we're keeping everyone under watch. Him especially. Explain what he's done. Explain that—he attacked the prison. Explain that he killed some of our people. Explain what he did to Andrea. And Maggie. And Glenn. They'll understand why we're hesitant to accept that he's a changed man."

"And if they don't?" Rick asked. "If they react? If they don't accept that we're going to keep him under lock and key for an indefinite amount of time?"

"Then we shoot them for being stupid," Abraham said, his voice bursting out louder than he probably intended. "This is a damn war zone. We don't have time to sugarcoat shit and present it to them on silver platters. The man is a murderer. He's a psychopath. I don't know him well, so I might be missing some of his other charming attributes. We have children here. Women. We have to protect our people and we have to do it in the best way we see fit. He came here with a tank and weapons. He came here to kill, not to negotiate peace. If they're too damn stupid to see that then they're really too damn stupid to keep going on."

Everyone was looking at Abraham and, for a split second, Michonne felt some amusement about it because he looked genuinely surprised to have all their attention. He lowered his eyebrows from the flash of surprise and then he continued with a little less fire and determination in his voice.

"I don't know him and I don't know what you have against him," Abraham said. "I only know what I've heard. I know there's something there, though, because Andrea went out cold in my arms from just the fear of seeing the man alive. I don't need someone to tattoo the facts on my ass to know that there's something wrong with this man. Don't underestimate the people he brought with them. They may have been dumb enough to fall for his story—but that may just be because it was the only story that they had."

He stopped speaking, swallowed, and then glanced around before he spoke again. Michonne felt an odd sort of catch at his final words on the subject.

"They may have believed it because it was the story that they needed to believe," Abraham said.

He turned and excused himself. He walked away, headed outside of the small meeting area and toward the yard where he would, no doubt, keep himself busy by collecting together the weapons that had been left there.

"Kill them if they're too damn stupid for their own good," he offered as an afterthought, tossed over his shoulder.

Everyone fell silent after Abraham left. The silence remained even after the echoed thud of the distant door closing marked that he was gone. He'd offer no more commentary on the subject. He'd said what he had to say. But the finality in his voice had done something to still some of the fidgeting from everyone else. Even Michonne felt a little stiller than she had.

"So that's what we're going to do then?" Rick asked.

"It's as good an idea as any," Daryl said. "Ain't nobody gotta die unless they want to. Not even a good for nothin' like the Governor."

"Not today, at least," Rick challenged.

"That's all the hell any of us got promised," Daryl pointed out.

"And you're all happy with that?" Rick asked. "With having him in a cell? Locked away? With letting the others earn the chance to join the group?"

"I'm not happy with having him alive," Michonne said. "But—if we're not going to kill him, locking him in a cell is at least a better alternative to letting him roam free in another cellblock."

"Hershel?" Rick asked, tossing the question to the man without repeating it. Hershel was surrounded by his "family" and, for the most part, seemed to be doing the talking for them.

"I don't like the idea that anyone has to live as a prisoner," Hershel said. "And I hope that—one day—he'll see the error of his ways and he'll come around to working with us instead of against us. However, in light of what he's done and what he was willing to do, I think that it's best to have some kind of guard between him and everyone else in the prison."

"For how long?" Rick asked.

"I know you're not asking me, Rick," Hershel said. "But—I think he'll let us know how long is long enough."

"And if he don't," Daryl said, "then we'll figure it out. I don't care if we keep his ass locked up until he rots if that's what we gotta do."

"We don't give him a time limit," Michonne said. "That's too considerate. It gives him too much to work with. Knowing how long he's in there? That gives him too much information. We lock him up, we throw away the key. We go on with our lives."

"It would be more humane to kill him," Rick said.

"I'll gladly do that, if that's what you want," Michonne said.

Rick stared at her and then he shook his head.

"Daryl? Glenn? Tyreese? I'll need your help, probably. We don't know how everyone's going to react," Rick said. "To move him. Michonne?"

Michonne moved to go with Rick to help move the Governor to a more "comfortable" location for them all.

"Get Abraham?" He asked.

Michonne laughed to herself, feeling the dig. Maybe he didn't trust her with the Governor—and he shouldn't. Maybe he didn't think that she was suitable for the job. It didn't matter to her, though, what Rick thought. Not as long as the Governor was locked away.

The rest, after all, was just details that could be dealt with later.

"I'm on it," she said, gathering up her katana and heading out to bring Abraham back to help with the dirty work of explaining everything and putting their plan into action.


	53. Chapter 53

**AN: I'm back! Did you miss me? Or even notice I was gone? LOL**

 **Sorry, I've been very, very busy. I haven't had any writing time. I'm back though. As usual, my schedule will be full and probably unpredictable, but I'll be writing when I can.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne stood out in the darkness, just at the fence line, and listened to the sounds of the Walkers growling at her. That was the only real sound that she could hear at the moment. She'd come outside just for that. She'd come outside to work on clearing some of the Walkers and to listen of the sound of them. It was a strange sensation having them as the only threat, at least that they knew about, beyond the prison fences for the moment.

They'd worried about when the Governor would come for some time, but that worry was over. Now there was no more worrying about where the man was, when he'd return, or what would happen when he did. They knew exactly where he was. He was in a cell, on the second floor, safe in their block where they could be permanently watchful over him.

Now, for all that they knew, there was nothing to worry about beyond their fences except for the Walkers. And from inside the fences? Michonne worried about them very little.

She was more worried, at the moment, about Andrea than even the Governor.

When Andrea had complained of a "tight" feeling that came, went away, and then returned soon after, Michonne had sent her straight to bed and she'd gone directly for Hershel. She'd left them alone, to give Andrea some privacy with him if she wanted it, and Michonne had gone outside seeking a little bit of silence—and maybe a little bit of reassurance that they could get over all of this. After all, they'd dreaded the Governor's arrival and nothing had come of that really besides landing them with a madman in a cage. Maybe nothing else that Michonne worried about was worth the effort. She hoped the night would give her that. She hoped, as ridiculous as it sounded, to find some peace in the sound of the growling, snarling, freaks that hung outside the fences.

And she found a little of it.

Michonne made her way back to the prison and passed through the halls as though she'd lived there forever. It was becoming "home". It was becoming comfortable in a way that she might have never believed it would. She could have navigated much of it blindfolded. She found her cell without even paying attention to where her steps were taking her.

But she stopped—and she almost stopped breathing—when Andrea wasn't in the cell. In a rush for Hershel's cell, Michonne almost collided with the old man. She reached a hand out and touched his arm to steady him, realizing that she'd startled him almost to losing his balance.

"Andrea?" She managed.

Hershel smiled at her and nodded.

"With Carol. They went to the showers, I believe," he said. "She's fine. False alarm. Some light contractions. I think that with some relaxation and taking it easy, she'll be fine. She just got a little—stirred up."

Michonne swallowed, her throat feeling suddenly raw. Hershel frowned at her.

"She's fine," he said, his voice more reassuring this time and more sincere than when he was trying to be light about everything. "It's just an—an adjustment. Go see her. She'll be wondering where you are."

Michonne thanked Hershel, though the words weren't really too loudly pronounced, and she headed back the way that she'd come to direct her steps toward the showers. She never made it, though, because she found Carol and Andrea coming her way. Both of them were dry now, but their hair showed they'd been showering, and both of them were wearing what constituted as their pajamas. Michonne stepped forward, toward Andrea, and Andrea smiled at her.

"Nothing," Andrea said. "Just like I told you."

"It's not nothing," Michonne said quickly. "It's something that's telling you that—if you're not careful? You're going to have something worse."

Carol reached and pulled Andrea to her in a sideways hug. She was all smiles, clearly not affected too much by the presence of their new "houseguests" or, at the very least, not too _concerned_ with any of them.

"Michonne is right," Carol agreed. "You need to go and relax. Daryl has watch tonight. He's going up in a few minutes to sit outside the cell. If he even thinks of trying anything? Daryl will take care of it." Michonne realized where Carol's confidence was coming from in the moment. The Governor wasn't likely to be able to escape a prison cell. After all, they were designed to keep that from happening, but if he were to try, then Daryl would take care of it. Daryl wasn't, unlike Rick, all that interested in trying to play nice with the man. "Isn't that right, Daryl?" Carol added, calling out with a louder voice that travelled the short distance between where they were and where her cell was located.

"Right," Daryl responded, stepping out of the curtained area of the cell. Michonne thought he blushed a little pink, not quite accustomed to everyone being fully aware that he had moved into Carol's cell, but he recovered quickly enough. "Lay down. Ain't lost Lil' Asskicker and ain't losing this one to this asshole. Besides—he can't get out the damn cell."

Daryl seemed to think his input was the end of the conversation. He didn't say anything else to any of them. He gave Carol a nod—a nod that Michonne assumed meant more between them than it might to anyone else—and then he started toward the stairs that would take him to the second level for his night watch.

"Rest," Carol said, directing her attention toward Andrea. This time she had a little less joviality behind her voice and a little more sincerity. "Don't worry about him. He can't hurt you and he can't hurt her. He can't hurt any of us now."

Carol reached and squeezed Andrea's arm before she turned to Michonne, offered her a smile, and bid her goodnight. Andrea started toward their cell before Carol had even disappeared entirely behind the curtain that Daryl had recently stepped through. Quietly, Michonne followed Andrea back to the cell and watched as she settled herself on the mattress and finger combed her curls in silence. Michonne leaned against the wall of the cell and crossed her arms across her chest while she watched Andrea.

"We can talk about it, if you want," Michonne said. "You like that. The—talking about things?"

Andrea laughed to herself and Michonne bit the inside of her cheek not to be too amused at her own words. Andrea looked at her, making her best attempt to look annoyed when she really wasn't, and then she shook her head.

"What am I going to say? I got too worked up and terrorized my own baby? Made—could have made myself go into labor?" Andrea asked.

"That wasn't just you," Michonne said. "It wasn't," she insisted when Andrea rolled her eyes at her. "You're..."

Michonne paused. She didn't want to point out to Andrea that she had every reason to be traumatized. She didn't want to point out to her that it was amazing that her nightmares were as few and far between as they were. She didn't want to point out that Hershel had said more than once he was amazed that she'd even carried the baby this long and that her body had responded as well as it had—and that wasn't even drawing attention to the miracle that she could seem so genuinely happy with her life at times. Michonne didn't want to point it out because she feared that reminding Andrea that she should feel something negative about what she'd been through might do nothing more than make her feel worse than she naturally did.

But it almost needed to be pointed out sometimes. It almost needed to be pointed out as a way to give Andrea permission for feeling, when it did happen, the way that she did.

Michonne joined her on the bed. Andrea leaned her head against Michonne's shoulder and Michonne patted Andrea's leg in response to the show of affection.

"You have every right to be upset that he's here," Michonne said, rethinking how she might word what she wanted to say. "What he did to you? What he was going to do? You have every reason not to want him here. But right now? If he's not dead? He's in the best place that he can be. He can't get out of that cell. And even if he could, none of us would let him anywhere near you."

Andrea shook her head gently.

"I know it's irrational," she said. "I know that he can't do anything in there, but just knowing he's here? It bothers me. He wants her. And I'm not sure I feel even _comfortable_ bringing her into a world where I even know that he's alive and he knows about her and—he wants her."

Michonne swallowed and shook her head back at Andrea.

"It doesn't matter if he wants her or not," Michonne said. "He can't _have_ her. And she's coming. One way or another? She's coming. So what you need to focus on now is making sure that she comes when she's ready. We don't have to worry about him anymore. We don't have to worry about when he's coming or what will happen. So you let me worry about other things and you just—for now? You just worry about her."

Andrea opened her mouth like she'd protest and Michonne quickly leaned forward and caught the side of her mouth with a soft kiss. When Andrea turned to return the gesture, Michonne accepted the kiss and took the opportunity to deepen it. When she pulled away, she put her hand on Andrea's cheek to keep her from looking away.

"I let him have you once," Michonne said. "And he proved that he doesn't deserve nice things." She laughed to herself. "He doesn't know how to take care of his things. I'm not letting him have anything of mine again."

"Yours?" Andrea asked, raising an eyebrow at Michonne with a half smirk.

"Mine," Michonne said, forcing as much confidence and conviction behind the words as she could. "You. And her? Mine. And he's not playing with my things anymore."

Andrea laughed at Michonne's words and pulled away from Michonne's hand. Michonne didn't try to hide her own humor at the words either. She wasn't, honestly, a terribly possessive person. She never had been. At least, not for as long as she could remember. At the moment, though, she was feeling very possessive and, even if she didn't mean it in the way that it had come out, she meant what she'd said about him not getting his hands on what she felt was hers. The possessiveness inside her, little though it may be, was bubbling up to the surface.

He'd almost taken Andrea from her entirely once before. He wasn't going to do it again. Michonne would be sure of that.

And if it bothered Andrea, she didn't really show it. She contemplated the floor for a moment, allowed Michonne to continue absentmindedly rubbing her back for a moment, and then she looked back at Michonne and offered her a soft version of the amused smile from before.

"Nothing to worry about, right?" Andrea said.

"Nothing when it comes to him," Michonne said. She gestured toward the bed. "Now I'm just worrying about you."

"Hershel said I'm fine," Andrea said. "It was just..."

Michonne cut her off.

"It was just stress and...fear," Michonne finished. "But I don't care what it is. Lie down. We need to get some sleep anyway. Tomorrow, after Daryl has first watch with the man all night? We'll know a little more about what we're dealing with. We'll get to know the group that he's with. We'll..." Michonne broke off and laughed to herself, a strange sensation of relief washing over her again. The same strange relief that she'd felt when she'd gone out seeking some kind of solace among the Walkers—their only known enemies beyond the fences at the moment. "We'll worry about winter, and _her_ , and—going on with _life_."


	54. Chapter 54

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol hadn't followed Daryl because she doubted him or his abilities to deal with the Governor. At least, that wasn't exactly why she followed him. She followed him because she didn't trust the Governor at all. She knew how men like him operated, and she knew that Daryl knew it too. There was something about the man, there had to be given his history, that made people want to trust him. There was something about him that could appear charming. He was charismatic. There was something that he used to get people to trust him, to believe him, and to be what he wanted them to be.

And, well they knew, there was another side to him. If the charm didn't work, he had another side. He had another method of getting what he wanted. And if he couldn't get his hands on someone, it was reasonable to believe that he would know how to break them down verbally. Or he would at least try.

Carol trusted, entirely, that Daryl could handle him, no matter what the Governor might try, but it didn't mean that she didn't want to be there—just out of sight and out of mind—to offer support if it were needed.

Carol made her own camp up in the adjoining cell to the one where they'd placed the Governor. She'd cleaned all the cells out, even when they weren't ones that they were planning to use, and it would make a decent bed. Before she settled down there, though, she ducked just in the darkness of the corner of the cell and slid down to sit. From there, she could see Daryl, but he couldn't see her. After all, he wasn't looking for her. He assumed she'd be sleeping in her cell down below. He didn't know that she'd slipped upstairs ahead of him after she'd quietly walked the corridors and checked to make sure that, cell door locked for added peace of mind more than anything, Michonne and Andrea were sleeping well enough.

When Daryl arrived to take his night watch, he made his pallet up on the floor. He'd sit, his back to the wall, between the Governor's cell and the one where Carol expected to spend at least part of the night. Then, before he settled down, Daryl shined a flashlight into the cell and checked for the Governor's location in the same way a child might search out a hermit crab in a cage to know its whereabouts.

Carol might have assumed, as Daryl settled down, that the Governor was asleep. It was quiet. He and Daryl exchanged no greeting and the man said nothing of his woes of being a prisoner. Daryl settled into his spot and lit a cigarette. Carol settled into her spot in the corner and leaned her head back. It was only then that there was any indication that the Governor was awake and stirring. His voice, when he spoke, was low and it sent a strange chill through Carol that shook all the way up her spine.

"I guess there are no laws against smoking indoors these days," the Governor said. "Those things will kill you."

"So would you," Daryl commented back, seemingly disinterested. "That don't bother me neither."

There was a laugh that echoed around in the cell.

"Daryl, right?" The Governor asked. Daryl only responded to him with a hum that sounded as disinterested as his voice had sounded before. "Philip," the man offered. "I'm not an animal. I'm not—even a bad person."

Carol put her hand over her mouth, fearing a sound might escape, but her body produced no noise. Daryl did hum, though, or maybe it was a gentle laugh that escaped him.

"That's what all the real assholes say," Daryl said.

"There's no other way to say it," The Governor responded with a light laugh of his own. "Not when you're being painted as something and you're trying to clear yourself. I'm not a bad person. I want what everybody wants. That's all."

Another sound from Daryl. Laughter wasn't the right word for it, but it was something in the same family. Carol came close to giving up her position and going out to join him on his watch, openly, but she decided against it for the time being.

"You want what everybody else wants," Daryl mused. "To—rape people? _Torture_ people? Kill them? What everybody else wants..."

Some muffled sound came from the Governor's cell. The sound of footsteps as he shuffled around in the space. At this hour, after everyone had gone to bed, the prison echoed loudly. Tonight, though, Carol thought it echoed a little more loudly than they were accustomed to.

"What I want is what everybody wants," the Governor said. "I have tried to provide a safe place for my people. For the people who have looked up to me as someone who would do that—give them somewhere safe. I've sacrificed everything for them. And I've had them turn on me. After all that I've done for them—they turned on me. And now? This group? All I wanted for them was the same. To find them a safe place. A good place."

Daryl hummed. Carol thought that she could feel, even across the short distance between them, that he was unmoved by the Governor's speech, no matter how sincere the man might sound. He wanted Daryl to believe that's all he wanted. He wanted everyone to believe that's all he wanted. He was, after all, a good person in his mind. And that was the first line of defense that he used.

"I want other things too, the same things everyone wants," the Governor said.

Daryl scratched the cigarette butt, which had burned out, on the floor next to him. The sound it made seemed to entertain him because he repeated the action far more than it was necessary. He almost played a tune for himself with it before he went for another and lit it to occupy his hands and his mind.

"Just a regular life," the Governor said. Carol wondered if he'd been talking the whole time and she'd simply ceased to hear him. "How about you? Isn't that what you want?"

Daryl hummed.

"You gonna yack all damn night?" Daryl responded.

The Governor sounded amused.

"I'm just trying to have a conversation," the Governor said. "You're not sleeping. Neither am I. I thought—we could get to know each other."

"I know about all the hell I care to know about you," Daryl responded.

"Isn't her name Carol?" The Governor asked. At the mention of her name, Carol perked up a little in her spot. She had to remind herself to be quiet. She wasn't ready, yet, to reveal herself to Daryl. Daryl didn't respond to the man in any way. The Governor was unbothered by that, though. He was the type that could have a conversation entirely with himself—especially when he was trying to get under the skin of someone. Carol had heard those kinds of conversations before.

Ed never really required her input at all.

"She's the one that brought up the food," the Governor said. "Your wife? Petite? Pretty."

"You just leave her the hell alone," Daryl warned. He bit.

"I don't know if you noticed, but I'm in a cell," the Governor said.

"Gonna stay that way," Daryl said.

"How long?" The Governor asked. "How long do you intend to keep me locked in a cell when I came peacefully under the agreement that we could build a life here together? That's all I really want. You know that."

"Until your ass rots if I got anything to do with it," Daryl responded.

"I think you misunderstand me," the Governor said. If he was planning to say anything else, though, Daryl stopped him.

"You killed my brother," Daryl said. "I don't misunderstand that one damn bit." There was silence from the man in the cell, but it didn't last long.

"I didn't kill Merle," the Governor said, his voice softer than before. "I don't know who did, but there could've been a lot of people who might have wanted to kill Merle. He wasn't always the easiest person to get along with. I saved him from a lot of situations."

Daryl laughed, but it was insincere. He shifted around and angrily scrubbed out the cigarette that he was done with for the moment.

"I tell you what, I'll give it to you. You might not have been the one to pull the trigger," Daryl responded. "No way of knowing that. But you were the one behind it happening if you weren't the one that done it."

"I wouldn't do that," the Governor said. Carol stifled her reaction. She sincerely hoped that the Governor wasn't foolish enough to think Daryl was stupid enough to fall for his lines. Daryl, for his part, didn't say anything. He knew what he knew, the same as all of them, and he didn't have to have the psychopath agree with him to feel secure in that. So the Governor continued after a moment of silence that was probably meant to let Daryl cool down. "You and Carol—do you have any kids, Daryl? Are you a family man? Are you a father?" Daryl didn't respond to him. The Governor repeated his words, rearranging them ever so slightly, to try to prompt a response. Finally, and maybe just to shut him up, Daryl responded to him again.

"No," Daryl said. "Could if we wanted. But we ain't decided we want to."

"It's a hard world for it," the Governor said. There was some shuffling about in his cell. A scraping sound echoed out. It took Carol a moment to identify it as the sound of the chair being relocated. Daryl clicked on the flashlight and turned his body enough to shine it into the cell, satisfying his curiosity about what the man was doing. He clicked off the light and Carol assumed he'd answered the question for himself. "I lost my daughter," the Governor said. "Penny? Michonne killed her. Did she ever tell you that? About—how she killed my daughter?"

Carol swallowed, wondering what Daryl might say.

"Michonne ain't killed your kid," Daryl said blankly. "No more'n I did."

"Do you know what that's like, Daryl?" The Governor asked, ignoring Daryl's comment entirely. "To lose a child?" There was a long silence from Daryl. Carol assumed that maybe he wasn't going to say anything. The Governor had probably assumed the same thing and was thinking about where he was going to go from there. But then, quietly, Daryl did respond.

"Yeah," was all that he said, his voice barely loud enough to register.

"Then you know it's a terrible, terrible thing," the Governor said. "But I—have another daughter. And I have a right to see her. I have a right to—talk to Andrea. About her. How long are you going to keep me from talking to her?"

Silence followed by a half-choked laugh from Daryl.

"Andrea's her own damn person," Daryl said. "Ain't nobody keeping her from talking to your ass if she's got a mind to come on. But she don't wanna see you. And nobody ain't gonna make her."

"I have a right to..." the Governor started, but he never got to say anything else.

"You don't got no rights," Daryl said, some irritation in his voice. "That's why you're in the cell."

"If it was Carol, wouldn't you want to know about your daughter?" The Governor asked. Carol frowned to herself. It was a low blow. She almost felt like booing him for it.

"One damn difference," Daryl said. "I wouldn'ta tortured Carol and left her to bleed out."

"I didn't mean for things to happen like they did," the Governor responded. A weak response. He was floundering. Daryl must have thought the same. "You don't understand..."

"You're right," Daryl commented. "I don't. I don't understand how a man like you was such a fuckin' coward you handcuffed a woman to a chair to torture her. I don't understand how you didn't have the balls to end it if you wanted it ended. She nearly bled out. Stopped breathing—four times? I think Hershel said it was four times. And that was just what he was counting. But she come back, though. In spite of you. In spite of what you wanted."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"And hell," he continued. "Maybe that's what _everybody_ wanted. According to you? But she come back. And now? You don't got any rights. Not to Andrea and not to the damn kid. I reckon your rights are right where you left 'em—bleeding out on some damn floor somewhere. And—it don't have a damn thing to do with me and Carol. So don't you go makin' that comparison no more."

Daryl got to his feet quickly enough that it startled Carol. For a split second she wasn't sure if he might kill the man in the cell. She wouldn't have minded if he did. She could think of very few people, Rick excluded, who would have cared at all. But he didn't kill him. Instead, he muttered that he had to take a piss and reached down to gather up the crossbow that he was carrying with him.

"Go to sleep," Daryl said. "Don't wanna hear your mouth when I get back. Heard all the hell I wanna hear."

The Governor didn't respond, and Carol imagined he might not have moved at all. Maybe he thought that Daryl might be ready to kill him too. Daryl started to walk off. Carol shrank herself into the corner the best that she could. He walked past the cell and then his steps stopped. Carol held her breath and listened as Daryl turned around and came back. He stopped directly outside the cell that she was sitting in and stood there for a moment.

"You coming?" He asked.

Carol let out her breath.

"How'd you know I was here?" Carol asked.

Daryl chuckled to himself.

"Came by the cell to kiss you goodnight," Daryl said. "Knowed you were there the whole time. Besides—you breathe heavier when you're trying to be quiet. Always have."


	55. Chapter 55

Michonne walked along two paces behind Daryl while he recounted for her his night with the Governor. In Daryl fashion, he gave her the ins and the outs of what was said in the most bare bones fashion possible. She listened and she thanked him for what he said. She thanked him for standing up for Andrea, however he might have done it, and then she went back to see if Andrea had finally woken up.

She hadn't slept much the night before, so Michonne had wanted to let her sleep when she'd seen that it was finally happening. Michonne had slipped out as quietly as she could and she'd found Carol and Daryl to be the only two awake and not otherwise occupied with keeping guard over the Governor since Daryl had been replaced for the morning. She'd eaten with them and then she'd gone with Daryl under the guise that she was going to clear fences. Really, she just wanted his opinion on the Governor.

And his opinion was that the man was crazy, and he definitely wanted the access to Andrea and the baby that Rick had all but promised him, but he wasn't dangerous—not as long as he was in the cell. He couldn't, after all, get out of there without someone knowing about it.

When Michonne got back to the cell, Andrea was stirring. She frozen when she heard Michonne's approach, and she looked in Michonne's direction when Michonne stepped into the cell doorway.

"Tell me what's wrong," Michonne demanded immediately. "Is it her or...what's wrong?"

Andrea looked at her, sat up somewhat in the bed, and offered Michonne the smile that she'd come to think of as a joke from Andrea. It wasn't sincere. It was the only smile that Andrea was capable of pasting on when her real one wouldn't make itself available.

"It warms my heart when you call me beautiful," Andrea responded. Michonne felt some of her tension release. She was cracking jokes. She was at least, to some degree, OK. Michonne stepped the rest of the way into the cell and stooped down next to the cot.

"You've been crying?" Michonne asked. A shake of Andrea's head said "no," but it was a lie. "Over him?" Another shake. Andrea moved and sat fully up on the side of the bed. She leaned close to Michonne and groaned. "Cramps again?" Michonne asked. No, that wasn't it. Michonne sighed. "Andrea, it's too damn early to play the guessing game. What's wrong?"

Andrea looked at her. The fake smile again. Her eyes gave her away. Michonne could see in her eyes that she was in pain, whether it was physical or not, though, was difficult to tell.

"How'd I get us into this?" Andrea asked. Michonne furrowed her brow at her. The fake smile was renewed. "All of this? You should've just left me. In the meat locker. None of this would've ever happened if you'd have just left me in the meat locker like I told you to do."

Michonne's stomach churned. Andrea had been worrying all night. Now Michonne realized that she really had no idea of the possible depths of that worry. Michonne shook her head at her.

"I didn't leave you in the woods," Michonne said. "And I didn't leave you in the meat locker. And—I didn't leave you on the floor of that— _room_. The only place I left you was at the gates of Woodbury. And if I could go back? I wouldn't leave you there either. But..."

"But?" Andrea prompted. Her face was a little more relaxed now. Michonne wondered if Hershel had been right—she wondered if simply her presence had something to do with Andrea's shifting moods. He said she was better just by having Michonne around her, and maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. Michonne smiled at her, reassuring her as best she could, but she made sure to keep her firmness.

"But you're worrying me. _You_. You don't get to leave me either," Michonne said. "That's part of the deal. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not mentally. Not today or—ever."

"We have to die someday, Mich," Andrea said.

Michonne swallowed. She didn't know if Andrea knew how often she thought of that or how often, really, that thought kept Michonne up at night. Michonne had left Andrea, and she was sure that was a hard thing for Andrea to swallow, but Andrea had almost left Michonne too. Twice. And deep down, it terrified Michonne to think that it would happen again and her luck would run out.

"We do," Michonne confirmed. "But I'm going first. Or, at least, we're going together."

Andrea laughed at her. It was more sincere this time. It wasn't coupled with the fake smile. This smile was real, even if it was covered over with exhaustion.

"I just keep thinking about what could happen," Andrea said with a groan.

Michonne shook her head at her.

"Unless you're thinking about getting up, putting on some clean clothes that you haven't sweated through, and coming out to get breakfast—then you're not thinking about what's about to happen," Michonne said. "Get up. He's locked away. You're not. And Carol's got your breakfast ready. There are—things—that you need to do today."

"What?" Andrea asked.

Michonne froze for a moment. As far as she knew, there really wasn't anything planned that Andrea absolutely _had_ to do. At the moment, all Michonne wanted was some sign that Andrea was going to gather herself up and get up. She was going to keep going forward. The rest of it would work itself out.

"Carol will tell you," Michonne said, deciding it was the best response for now. "Come on. I'll get you some water to wash your face. You're a mess."

Andrea laughed at her.

"Flatterer," Andrea teased. Michonne couldn't help but smile. Once Andrea was on her feet, making moves to change her clothes, Michonne slipped out of the cell to get her water.

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"You're absolutely glowing," Carol said.

"It's sweat, mostly," Andrea responded. Carol laughed and bit her tongue between her teeth for a split second, the way that she usually did when she was genuinely amused by something.

"It was for me too," Carol admitted. "But—mine was from all the throwing up. You're lucky you missed that."

"Gotta have some relief somewhere, right?" Andrea said. "Catch some kind of break."

Carol hummed, but it wasn't entirely in an approving manner.

"Your baby is healthy," Carol said. "Despite the odds against it. You're doing well and could be doing much better if you'd be easier on yourself. Michonne is—well, she's something else. Tyreese and Abraham both have been by to ask about you and how you're feeling. I'd say, you're doing alright."

"That wasn't what I meant," Andrea said apologetically, afraid she'd offended Carol. Carol looked at her, shook her head gently, and offered her a sincere smile.

"I wasn't scolding," Carol said. "But I know it's probably easy for you to feel...down? Right now? I just want you to focus on the _good_ things. Let everyone else focus on the rest. You worry about the important things. Like whether you want to deliver in your cell or you want me to set up a cell for you to deliver in."

Andrea shook her head.

"I'm trying not to think about that," Andrea said.

"Well it's something you're going to have to think about," Carol said. "If I were you, I think I'd deliver in another cell. It'll be easier to clean that way. We just move you back to your cell and you can focus on baby while I focus on the mess."

Andrea shrugged.

"Whatever you think is best," Andrea said.

"Jitters?" Carol asked.

Andrea hummed in question.

"Do you have the jitters?" Carol asked. "When it was almost time? For Sophia? I would think about...well about it all, but...about the delivery? And then I couldn't breathe. I didn't think I'd be able to handle it. I thought I was going to be the first mother in history that they just said—you know what? You don't get your baby because you were such a _wimp_ when she was born."

Carol laughed at her own story. She laughed at a memory that played out in her head of when she'd been expecting Sophia. Andrea knew that she probably thought about the girl all the time, but Andrea had noticed that Carol didn't mention her often unless they were talking about the baby.

And, maybe, Andrea tried to press her to talk about her more in the environment where she felt comfortable doing so.

"But you did fine," Andrea said, dragging her words out on purpose so that it was a statement with the intonation of a question. "Nobody said you couldn't take her home," she finished, keeping the same pronunciation of the words.

Carol smiled and shook her head.

"No," she said. "Nobody said I couldn't take her home. And—the nurse that stayed with me while she was born said that I did great. I'm not going to lie. I chickened out and took the drugs. Ed told me not to, but he left and my body thought it was a good idea."

Andrea laughed.

"Great," she said. "Everyone around me took the drugs and you're cleaning out a nice prison cell for me to deliver in—like a stall."

Carol rolled her eyes at her.

"If you prefer," Carol said, "I could clear out one of the stalls in the barn. Haul in some fresh hay?"

"Get Tyreese to hit me in the head with a hammer?" Andrea asked.

"You'll be fine," Carol said. "And afterward? I'll find some Tylenol for you."

"The good stuff?" Andrea teased.

Carol laughed and shook her head at Andrea. For a moment, she let silence fall between them. For the day their task was simple. They were working inventory once more. A final run would take place. It would hopefully hold them over. Tyreese was going to head it up since he was mostly looking for building supplies to finish the fences and some repairs that he was doing, but as long as they were going out, they might as well make it count all the way around.

Andrea was sure that the task was mostly made up to keep her busy and keep her off her feet as she sat with Carol and made lists to tick off the items that they had and those that they were coming up short on.

"We're going to have to take into account a lot more mouths to feed," Carol said. Andrea hummed. "Some of them might be good for the run. They could even split up. Cover more ground that way." Andrea hummed again. Her stomach churned at the mention of the Governor and the people who had come with him. He was tucked in a second level cell in their block. His people were safely tucked away in D Block where they had full reign of their small space. "We should talk to them, sometime," Carol said. "See what they're like? Just because they're with him? It doesn't mean that they're all like him. It doesn't mean that they know what he's even like."

"I know that," Andrea said quickly. Carol looked apologetic, but she quickly focused her eyes on what she was doing again, even though the task was mindless enough that she could've almost done it with her eyes closed.

"We aren't going to let any of them out until you're ready," Carol said. "But—I've been over there to take them food. I've talked to a few of them. They're scared. They're—they just seem normal. I don't think they even really know who he is. They just followed him looking for something. Looking for—what he promised them."

"Our home," Andrea said. "He promised them our home."

"They don't know us either," Carol said. "They had no reason to think he was lying."

Andrea shook her head gently at Carol.

"I'm not suggesting to let him out," Carol said. "Never. He can rot in that cell as far as I'm concerned. Daryl could've put him down last night...I'm just saying that they didn't do anything. Maybe they wouldn't have come with him if they'd known. We all—do things when we're afraid. And winter is coming for everyone. It's going to be cold on everyone. We can't say we'd be any different. But nobody's going to let them out until you give the word. This is going to be your show. Rick decided they'd stay here, but Hershel decided they'd stay in D—away from everyone—until you said otherwise. For the...for your..."

"So I don't lose my mind," Andrea offered. Carol looked at her and frowned.

"I didn't mean it that way," Carol said. "And Hershel didn't say it that way."

Andrea's stomach churned at the thought of it. She didn't want to talk to them. She didn't want to face them and then have them walking around the prison—no doubt judging her as harshly as she was sure that some of the group did—but she also didn't want to know that people were locked up and denied their liberty on her account. People who were, probably, very good people.

Apparently her face gave away her conflict, because Andrea felt Carol rest her hand on Andrea's. She patted it.

"It doesn't have to happen right now," Carol said in a voice that Andrea was sure she'd once used with Sophia. She offered Andrea a reassuring smile. "Not today and not tomorrow. You take your time." She moved her hand and affectionately rubbed Andrea's belly. "You've got important things to worry about. Everything else will keep. Don't worry about it—at all. Forget—forget that I said anything."

But Andrea knew, and she knew that Carol knew it too, that she wasn't going to be able to forget a single word of it.


	56. Chapter 56

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne was going to kill Carol and Carol knew it. At least, she suspected there was a pretty good chance of it. Michonne was brooding. She was pacing around outside somewhere. Carol had asked her stay out there. She'd asked Michonne not to come with them for a few good reasons. One of the main ones was that Michonne could be _intimidating_ at best and that might not help with getting the new people to warm to them at all. The other reason was that, even though she comforted Andrea, she also had the potential to overshadow Andrea. She could take control, and Andrea would let her, even if there wasn't any distinct reason for it.

Daryl, too, had been asked to stay back, but he was less concerned about things than Michonne. His word on the whole thing was just to let him know if he was needed. Otherwise, there were things that needed to be taken care of to assure that they were all safe through the upcoming months when they didn't know quite what to expect.

So Carol had chosen Tyreese to go with them and she'd walked with Andrea through the corridors of the prison until they made their way to D-Block.

Carol didn't know, personally, any of the people who had come with the Governor. She hadn't been too intimately involved in the process of moving them to their "private block" and she hadn't talked in depth with too many of them. She took them food, and she honored any requests that they might have that she could honor, but she hadn't engaged with them in too much conversation. None of them, either, had gone to great lengths to get to know her. Usually they just shouted things at her—what they needed, requests for when they might be able to leave the space—and she told them that she'd take care of what she could and let them know whatever she could find out as soon as the information was made available to her.

But Carol hadn't really told Andrea that. After all, she didn't want to frighten her about the possibility of trying to go and talk with the people. She'd pointed out that they were scared—and of course they were. She'd said that they were annoyed with their imposed captivity—and who wouldn't be? And she'd left the rest in a shroud of silence. Andrea, she hoped, was prepared for all that might mean.

Tyreese was carrying the keys and he jingled them as they were nearing the door that locked to firmly separate the area off. It called them up—those that were in the block—because before he could sort through the ring for the correct key, one of them practically slammed against the iron door.

"When the hell are you letting us out of here?" He demanded. Carol didn't know his name, but she knew his attitude and his face. It was clear that the ongoing frustration he'd been feeling about their captivity was now turning into another emotion.

"Please step back," Carol said. "We're coming to talk to you. About that. But you've got to let us in so that we can handle this calmly."

"Calmly?" Another voice rang out from behind him. He moved out of the way as a woman stepped into the narrow view that the doorway offered. The others, possibly twenty or more since Carol had never carefully counted them, were apparently hidden somewhere out of view. "What are you talking about _calmly_ for when you're the ones that locked us in here?"

"I know that you don't like being locked in here," Tyreese said, choosing to speak for Carol at the moment, "but we're not letting you out of here until we know you can be trusted. One of the quickest ways for that to happen is for us to be able to have a conversation with you. Are we coming in to do that? Or should we just leave?"

A few more people appeared, further behind the two speaking, and they all looked at one another. The only response from them came in the act of slowly backing up and allowing more access to the door. Tyreese looked at Carol, waiting for some sort of direction from her, and she nodded her head at him. He took that as all the response he needed and moved to unlock the door. He pulled it open and Carol stepped in first, Andrea close enough behind her that a faulty step could result in getting her heels stepped on, and Tyreese followed behind them and pulled the door shut with a loud clang.

The three of them spread out, in a line, as soon as they were inside the door and the man that had thrown himself against the door addressed them, this time from where he was now standing.

"When are you letting us out of here?" He asked again, stressing each of the words.

"We don't know anything about you," Andrea said.

Before she could finish the statement that she'd intended to make—the rest of the information—the man jumped toward her like he intended to make contact with her the same way he had with the door. He stopped just before colliding with her, his face in hers, and yelled out his response to the few words she'd managed to get out.

"We don't know a single damn thing about you! You promised us what you haven't delivered on, locked us in her like prisoners, and we don't even know where the hell some of our people are! So it's not us that you need to know a damn thing about!" He spat.

He might have had more to say than that, but he didn't get the chance. Tyreese came across in front of Carol, caught the man by the back of the shirt, and by the time the man had fully gone silent from his final word, he found himself slammed against the wall nearby with Tyreese holding him firmly in place.

"That isn't the way we have conversations," Tyreese said. "And it certainly isn't how we talk to women. You see the woman whose face you just got into? She's got someone outside who is just waiting to have a reason to part your head from your neck. Do you want to give her that reason?"

The man visibly relaxed. He slumped even. Carol wondered if he'd even be holding himself up if Tyreese were to remove his hands. He probably had no intention to be violent, and he probably had little desire to be that way, but he was reacting to his own feelings.

 _And there was no telling what the Governor had told them._

"Let him go, Ty?" Carol asked.

Tyreese eyed her, but he gently let the man go. He kept his location near him, though, as something of a reminder to the man that, if he needed to, he could have him flat against the wall once more.

One of the women of the group—the one who'd come to the door earlier—addressed them then.

"Where is Brian?" She asked.

Carol looked at Andrea. Andrea looked back at her. A quick glance at Tyreese said that he, too, was in the same boat as they were.

"I'm sorry," Carol said. "Who is Brian?"

"Brian," the woman repeated, like it would clarify things. "You _took_ him. Where _is_ he? Did you _kill_ him?"

"Brian?" Carol repeated. A nod.

"We didn't kill anyone," Andrea said, confusion on her face too. "We haven't killed anyone. And that's what I was trying to tell you all. We don't want to kill any of you. We don't want anyone to have to die. But we have to know that—if we let you out? We have to know that you're extending us the same courtesy."

"You just come in here and make people disappear and then you want to play dumb?" Another of the group asked.

"I'm sorry," Carol repeated. "But we don't know where Brian is because we don't know _who_ Brian is."

"Brian Heriot," a young, dark haired woman said. "You knew who he was when we got here. You brought us here and you took Brian—where did you take him?"

"When you got here?" Tyreese asked. "The Governor?"

"Brian?" Andrea asked. "What...the man we took? He's Philip Blake. He's the main reason that we need to talk to you."

"He's Brian Heriot," the first woman said. Her expression said she was crossed between being terrified and being highly annoyed and confused. Andrea's expression wasn't too different.

"The man that we took," Andrea repeated. "The man that brought you here? His name is Philip Blake. He also goes by the Governor. He used to be the Governor of Woodbury."

"Yeah," Tyreese offered quickly. "Until he killed nearly everybody that lived there and burned the whole place down."

"Where is Brian?" The woman repeated. Now there was something of a "hear, hear" rising up in mumbles from the people around her. Carol could feel her own frustration growing.

"The Governor is alive," Carol said. "For now. What happens to him is his choice and anyone's guess. He's a—murderer. He's a thief. He's the worst kind of person that anyone could think of and all of you? You followed him here. So we want to know why."

"You are the thieves," the man beside Tyreese responded. "You're the killers. He told us about you. This place? We came here because it's safe. We came here because people like us? Good people? We deserve it more than you do. We came to get it. Brian brought us here."

"No," Andrea said quickly. "We're not the killers. And we're not thieves. And we're not—horrible people. And maybe neither are you. But the man that brought you here? He isn't who he told you he was. And—I understand it. You want to believe what he says. He's good at convincing you that he's a good guy. But he's not. He's the—he's the worst kind of person there is now. He's killed a lot of people. He almost killed me. And he didn't want this place for you. He just _wanted it_. For himself. And if he had to kill you? All of you? And everyone here to get it? He would have."

"I know Brian," the woman who had been addressing them said. "I know him. Better than anyone here. And I want to see him. I want to talk to him."

Andrea looked at her. She swallowed.

"I thought I knew him too," Andrea said. "Except I knew him as Philip Blake. And now? I'm not even sure what his name is—and neither are you. But one thing I do know? He—he told me he loved me. He told me that—I was what he wanted in this world. For us to be happy and live..." Andrea broke off and laughed to herself. "Happily ever after? Whatever there is now? And then? He handcuffed me to a chair and he _tortured_ me. He left me in a room with a man that was going to die. And he was going to turn and he was going to kill me. I thought I knew him too. And now? I know that I don't really know anything about him, but I know that he's—he's not who you think he is."

The woman looked at Andrea and then she looked at Carol. She looked desperate. Whether it was desperation to see the Governor or to understand what Andrea was saying, Carol couldn't be sure.

"She's telling the truth," was all that Carol offered the woman for her look of desperation. "And that's why we need to talk to you. The man you came with, as we said, is dangerous. And we need to know more about you before we can agree to simply live together."

The woman stammered out something—a series of unintelligible noises that were probably somehow related to words—and then she walked off, disappearing into a cell. Carol glanced at Andrea. For a moment, the blonde had her head hung at the situation—or maybe it was just at the memory of things that she'd drudged up. Carol gave her the moment of silence that she probably needed and addressed the rest of the crowd.

"Can we talk now?" Carol asked. "Calmly? See if we can't...figure out how to work something out?"

She accepted, from the faces that stared at her, all with slightly differing expressions, the few scattered nods as the confirmation that they might actually leave the space with something to tell the rest of the group about the Governor's people. If, in fact, they were his people at all.


	57. Chapter 57

**AN: Another chapter here. More to come.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Mich? I can bathe myself, you know?" Andrea said.

Michonne ignored her and continued to scrub her down with the loofah, satisfying herself that she'd covered every square inch of what she was considering her "canvas" with soap suds.

"You can," Michonne said. "But what would be the fun in that?"

Andrea looked at her over her shoulder. There was a hint of a smile there. She was bound ass and determined to hide it from Michonne, but it was there.

"Why are you so _happy_?" Andrea asked. "This has been a _ridiculously frustrating_ day and, Mich? I don't think I've ever seen you so happy before."

"Andrea the only thing frustrating about this day has been you and Carol going off like you're in charge of peace negotiations for the end of the world," Michonne said. "You are doing excellent. Baby girl? Hershel says she's doing well. I've got no reason to not be happy right now. I'm just going to try to hold onto that. For just a minute. Rinse."

Michonne twirled her finger at Andrea, ignored her own shiver of cold from having been the first to bathe, and caught Andrea's shoulders to "help" direct her under the water. Andrea was right. She needed none of it. Not one bit of the care that Michonne was putting into this did Andrea actually need. She was doing well. Hershel had promised Michonne that. She was doing better than he expected her to be doing. And, honestly, she probably didn't need any care at all anymore—but Michonne enjoyed caring for her and she wasn't ready to let it go just yet.

Oddly enough, caring for Andrea made Michonne feel like she had some kind of part in this. In all of it. In building whatever kind of family it was that the two of them were building on the outskirts of the disasters that surrounded them. And she knew, as the winter wore on and Andrea got stronger and closer to the birth of the baby, that she was going to feel a lot more like she didn't have much of a part in things. So caring for Andrea, whether or not the woman needed it, was just going to be how Michonne made herself feel _involved._

"What are we going to do with them?" Andrea asked. "We can't keep them locked up but...she's insisting on seeing him."

Michonne laughed to herself.

"Then let her see him," Michonne said. "Let her see him. Let her talk to him. Let her stay in the cell with him if that's what she wants. It isn't going to matter." She stopped. "Unless it bothers you that she's—with him?"

Andrea made an annoyed face at her.

"Mich—you know that it doesn't..." Andrea started.

Michonne cut her off.

"I'm not going to be mad if you tell me that it bothers you," Michonne said. "Whatever it was, I know it's over. It is over, right?"

Andrea's eyes went wide.

"Do you seriously think that I still have _feelings_ for him?" Andrea asked.

Michonne almost laughed at Andrea's expression. She shrugged.

"Are you rinsed? It's cold in here," Michonne said. Andrea nodded and Michonne reached around her to turn off the water and save it for someone else to use. Then she waved an arm to usher Andrea out of the shower. "I don't think you have feelings for him, but I didn't think you'd have them to begin with. Yet, here we are."

"She won't even listen to me when I tell her what he did to me," Andrea said. "I can show her _scars_ to prove it and she still won't hear me."

"Because people are only going to believe what they're going to believe, Andrea," Michonne said. "You didn't want to believe me when I could've told you what kind of person he was. You had to find out for yourself and it almost cost you your life."

"You wouldn't tell me _why_ Michonne," Andrea said. "From where I was standing? You were just mad at me. You just didn't want—to be around people. You didn't want to _share_ me with anyone else."

"And I still don't," Michonne responded quickly. "But I'm settling into the group thing here. I'm settling into the whole—we need other people mentality. But I still don't want to share you. I still don't _like it_ when I don't know where you are or what you're doing. I still don't like it, but I'm accepting it. Woodbury was different. I knew he wasn't what he said he was. He wasn't what you wanted to believe he was."

"But you never told me _why_ ," Andrea said.

Michonne handed her a towel and turned her attention to drying herself off. She was halfway into her clothes before Andrea even made a move to start mopping the water off her body and out of her hair.

"You're going to get pneumonia," Michonne said. "Hurry up and get dressed. I never told you why because I didn't think that I had to. I didn't think I _should_ have to. But there's no use in arguing about it now. We've been through it a thousand times and it's not changing."

Andrea sighed and quietly thanked Michonne when Michonne passed her the dry clothes that she'd brought to change into while they made their way back to their cell. Michonne watched her get dressed and leaned against the sink in the bathroom.

"It bothers you because you don't want her to get hurt," Michonne said. "And I understand that. You don't want her to get hurt. You don't want any of them to get hurt. You don't want _anyone_ , ever, to get hurt. But you're not the savior of the world, Andrea. You've got to put the world down because it's too heavy for you to carry. Ultimately? The decision of leaving them in there or letting them out comes down to you. What you want to do? We'll support. Nobody else has half the reason you have to not want him or anybody else around them. But you've got to put the world down and let whatever's going to happen to them happen. I don't care about them. None of them. Not a single one. What I do care about is you. And if it's going to—bother you—to have them here and joining the group."

Andrea looked up at Michonne from where she was working her way through the struggle of trying to put the dry sweatpants on still damp legs. Her belly, though she sometimes tried to ignore it, made the job even more daunting.

"I don't want it all on my shoulders," Andrea said. "And I don't want to be the one that decides what happens to them. To anyone. I'm tired, Michonne. And—I still go to bed at night terrified of him, even though I know he's locked in a cell and there's someone on guard. I just keep waiting—like he's going to just show up one day. I can _feel_ her growing and it scares me because I'm afraid of her being born. I don't want him to see her. I don't want him to— _get_ her."

Michonne heard the shake in Andrea's voice. She recognized it. Andrea must have felt it or heard it too, because she dropped her face and focused on her pants. Michonne crossed the distance between them, took up her caretaker role once more, and helped wrestle Andrea into the pants—leaving off for a moment her desire to proclaim that they were simply going to have to find her some larger clothes.

"He's not getting her," Michonne said. "If he's still here when she's born? He'll never touch her. He'll never even see her unless—it's from a distance and from behind those bars. We know he can see us. But he'll never see her up close. Not unless you feel—or you decide—that he should and you take her up there yourself."

Andrea made some kind of noise, head still down, and Michonne shook her gently by the shoulders.

"Hey," she said. She repeated it again until Andrea looked at her. "He won't. And them? If anyone tries anything? Andrea you can stop them. And if you won't? I will. Someone will. All you have to do is give me the word and I'll be rid of him right now. He won't—he won't be a problem for anyone anymore. You just tell me that's what you want me to do."

"And then you're a murderer," Andrea said. "Because of me?"

Michonne shook her head.

"The only reason he isn't dead is because of you," Michonne said. "I wanted to kill him from the start. The only reason I haven't? Is because I don't know if you want—something. Some closure? Something. I don't know if you just don't want him dead. But that's the only reason that I haven't killed him."

"Rick..." Andrea started.

"Doesn't scare me," Michonne said. "He can say what he wants, but Rick Grimes can't make me leave this prison."

She sucked in a breath, considered her next words carefully, and only then did she decide to share them.

"He's still strong right now," Michonne said. "He hasn't been locked up very long. He still believes his people are on his side. He still thinks he's got this whole thing figured out and he's got some kind of power. When he's got nobody left? When he realizes he's alone and he's done this? He'll break. One day? He's going to break in that cell. And maybe—for as much as I want him dead right now and the whole thing to be ended? Maybe that's something you need to see. Andrea? The monster? Maybe you need to see that he isn't much when he finally breaks. And he will break. We all do."

"You don't," Andrea said.

Michonne smiled at her because it was the only emotion that she could stir up at the moment to keep from feeling, in her gut, the emotions that just the thought of it stirred up.

"I broke twice," Michonne said, raising her eyebrows at Andrea. "You know it, too. I broke—when I found _them_. When I lost _them_. And I was broken for a long time. You? You're what brought me back from that. And then? I broke again."

Andrea shook her head at Michonne. She moved her lips, but no sound came out. It didn't matter, Michonne understood the question even it wasn't voiced. She swallowed and rubbed her thumb across Andrea's cheek.

"When I saw Rick and Daryl wrapping you up in a—tarp? Saying it was for your own good but I heard them saying to each other that it would be easier to handle you that way when you _died_? Andrea—I told them I was looking for him. I stepped away for a moment. But I wasn't even thinking about looking for him right then," Michonne said. "And the only reason that I didn't break entirely? That day? Was because _you_ needed me not to. I had something, still. Until—until Hershel told me you weren't coming back? I had something. He doesn't have anything. And when he realizes that?"

Michonne shook her head at Andrea.

"It might be good for you to see him broken," Michonne said.

Andrea stood there, staring at her, her chest heaving. Michonne could imagine there were a lot of things going on behind the difficulty she was clearly having breathing, but Andrea couldn't bring voice to any of them. Michonne put her hand on her back and pushed her toward the door, satisfied she was dried and dressed enough to make it back to their cell.

"It would be cruel to let him get that way," Andrea said. "It's cruel to anyone..."

"Sometimes cruelty deserves cruelty," Michonne said. "It wouldn't be half enough torture for him. Not after what he did to you. To me," she added quietly.

Andrea stopped her at the door. She put her hand on the doorframe and blocked their passage out of the bathroom.

"I don't want you to kill him, Mich," Andrea said. She shook her head at her. "I don't want that on you."

Michonne nodded at her.

"You don't want me to kill him," Michonne said. "Then I won't. But you change your mind? Just say the word."

"And—I want us to let them out," Andrea said. "They don't deserve to be prisoners. They seem to understand how things work around here. Let's—give them a chance."

Michonne sucked in a breath, held it, and nodded.

"We'll talk to Rick in the morning," Michonne said. "Let's get some sleep. You look tired and you need to rest."

Andrea smiled at her. She laughed quietly.

"I don't need you telling me when I have to go to bed, either," Andrea said.

"You don't," Michonne confirmed. "But I'm going to do it anyway. And if you love me? You'll let me."

Andrea's expression was odd. She looked confused and then the expression changed. For a moment, Michonne wondered if she'd communicated to Andrea, without having to actually say it, exactly how much she needed this—exactly how much she needed to feel like she was doing _something_ by taking care of her.

"OK," Andrea said. "But—it's a shame. I was hoping we wouldn't be going to sleep for a while now..."

She smirked at Michonne and then she sucked in her bottom lip, chewing on it even as she smiled. Michonne didn't try to hold back her own smile.

"Let's go to bed," Michonne corrected. "I think we can hold off on the sleep. Just for a bit."


	58. Chapter 58

**AN: This chapter was intended to be something of a continuation of the last.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Something stirring woke Andrea, even if it took her a moment to realize the stirring was coming from her own body. The little soft kicks that she was used to, and had to be paying attention to notice, were becoming stronger. She didn't know what woke the baby up—if it ever really slept—or what made it want to wriggle around and remind her of its presence, but sometimes she wondered. Was it something she did? Even though they were currently sharing a body, how much were they really connected?

Andrea ghosted her fingers over her belly. She already felt like it was huge, but she heard from Carol and Michonne both that she hadn't "seen anything yet".

And then she realized that her daughter—whatever was causing her nocturnal stirrings—was also creating pressure on her bladder that she simply couldn't ignore. Andrea eased herself off the cot, trying desperately not to wake Michonne, and she dressed as quickly as was possible. Michonne was right. She was going to have to give in and go in search of some bigger clothes—especially if this was only the beginning.

"Are you OK?" Michonne asked. Andrea glanced at her to see she was perched on her elbow in the darkness.

"I have to pee," Andrea said. Michonne laughed at her.

"Go in the bucket," Michonne offered.

Andrea hummed.

"I can make it to the bathroom," she said. "So I'd rather."

"And I'd rather you not go stumbling around in the dark," Michonne pointed out.

"I think I'm old enough to walk to the bathroom, Mich," Andrea said. "Besides—it's dark, but it's not that dark." Before Michonne could argue with her more or, worse, offer to come with her and practically hold her hand while she peed, Andrea darted out the cell and called a quick "I'll be back" to Michonne. Her words were louder than she intended and she heard them echo slightly around her.

Out of her cell, Andrea could see that she hadn't lied. It wasn't that dark. There was some faint light coming from a few cells with lights that burned behind "privacy curtains". Carol and Daryl were still awake in Carol's cell. Her lamp burned still. Hershel, too, it seemed might still be awake and enjoying the quiet hours.

Tomorrow, Andrea had decided, they would move in the others—the people who had come with the Governor—and there would be more lamps to light the prison after-hours.

Andrea glanced up toward the second level. Up there, too, there was a lamp burning. She couldn't make out who was on duty, but whoever it was had decided to keep their post lit. She glanced at the cell where she knew he'd be, locked away, and her heart skipped. She could see his figure, just barely, at the cell bars. Dark against dark. He was standing there instead of sleeping and Andrea suddenly felt very exposed even though she didn't know if he was even able to see her from where she was.

Andrea shivered at the very thought that he might be able to see her. She rushed her steps, even if Michonne wouldn't have cared for the hurry, to make progress toward the bathroom and she felt her way along the wall when she reached the hallway. Inside the bathroom, Andrea closed the door and found the lights. She blinded herself, momentarily, when she switched them on and then she focused on her reason for being there.

She never paid that much attention to going to the bathroom before, but carefully going through each movement kept her from focusing too much on him.

She knew he was there. She knew he was in the cell. But, somehow, she could almost forget him most of the time. Seeing just his figure had unnerved her more than her pride wanted to admit.

Michonne would tell her that her fear was nothing to be ashamed of. He had tried to kill her. He'd almost succeeded in a brutal way. Her fear was simply her body's response to him—a way of keeping her safe and reminding her who he was and what he was capable of doing.

And the stupid woman they would let out of the other block tomorrow wanted to _be_ with him. She wanted to believe that _they_ were cruel for denying him his freedom.

Andrea washed her hands and wet her face. The cool water was welcomed for the moment. When she felt less shaky, she turned off the bathroom lights and made her way back out of the bathroom and toward her cell. She focused on reaching the cell and she determined not to look up there again. If he was still there, looking down into the darkness, she didn't want to see him.

She was hyper-aware of the sounds of her shoes, loose on her feet because she hadn't bothered to tie them, as she clomped back toward the cell. But she stopped walking when she heard a sound that made her blood feel like it stopped flowing in her veins entirely.

The whistle was low, but it still carried in the prison. Andrea nearly choked at the sound. She'd opened her eyes to it nearly every time that he'd come back to where she'd been handcuffed. He'd used it to taunt her. And he was using it to taunt her now. She knew, if she were to look, he was standing at the bars—he was watching her. And she could imagine the horrible expression on his face. She'd seen it before—a smile that chilled her.

"What the fuck?!" Abraham barked. "Are you a damn parrot? We have to throw a fucking blanket over your head to tell you to knock the noise off and go to sleep?"

Andrea almost laughed to herself.

Abraham. Abraham was on duty. In some way, it made her feel better about the whole thing. Though the Governor, for at least a moment, ignored Abraham's insistence that he go to sleep or get a bullet as a midnight snack, Andrea felt better for simply knowing that the man was on watch. The Governor wouldn't get out of his "cage" as Abraham called it. And if he did? He wasn't getting much farther than that.

And Andrea decided, for just a moment, she wasn't going to let the Governor know that he could still frighten her.

"Goodnight, Abraham," Andrea called up, loudly enough that she knew he'd be able to hear her over his own spat curses and insults toward the man he was keeping watch over.

"Sweet dreams, Little Mama," Abraham called, a low laugh trailing off at the end of the statement. Andrea picked it up and laughed to herself.

"They will be," she said, not putting enough volume behind the words for anyone to hear them.

Andrea felt a little more relaxed and a little more confident. The whistling stopped, but at the moment she wanted to believe that it wouldn't have affected her anyway. At least, maybe it wouldn't have affected her as strongly as it had only moments before.

She made her way back to the cell and found Michonne sitting on the edge of the bed. The lamp was lit again and Andrea started to undress.

"You could've slept," Andrea said.

"You were taking a while," Michonne said. "And then—what was even happening out there? Abraham was yelling. You were—yelling...was the Governor whistling?"

"He was taunting me," Andrea said with a sigh. "He must've seen me. He must have heard me. He was whistling because—that's the sound he used to let me know he was coming. To let me know he was close to the—to the _room_."

Michonne blew out a breath.

"Are you alright?" Michonne asked.

Andrea nodded, but Michonne wasn't looking at her so she gave voice to the sentiment.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Are you really fine?" Michonne asked. "Or are you— _Andrea_ fine?"

Andrea laughed.

"Andrea fine, Mich?" Andrea asked.

"I don't care if you were sweating out of your eyeballs with fever and infection," Michonne said, "all you've told me since I got you back here was that you were fine. Close enough to death that Hershel's telling me I should probably think about if there's anything I need to say—but you were fine."

Andrea sighed.

"A little shook up," Andrea said.

Michonne looked at her then.

"Yeah?" Michonne asked. Andrea nodded and Michonne waved her toward the bed like she wasn't coming there at any rate. Andrea sat down and appreciated the gesture as Michonne hugged her against her and rubbed her hands down her arms, squeezing in little intervals. "Then why did you say anything?" Michonne asked. "Why—let him know you were out there?"

"He already knew," Andrea said. She shrugged. "And—Abraham is up there. His job is to keep the Governor from getting out of that cell. He doesn't care about him. He takes his job seriously. He'd kill him as fast as anyone. And..."

"And?" Michonne pressed.

Andrea shrugged again.

"And I wanted him to know that—that I knew that he knew I was there," Andrea said. "Like—I wasn't afraid of him. Not anymore."

Michonne stopped the rubbing.

"So you're afraid or you're shook up?" She asked.

"I was afraid," Andrea admitted. "Now I'm shook up. Soon—I hope to just be asleep."

Michonne stood up and gestured toward the cot like Andrea should lie down.

"Where are you going?" Andrea asked.

"You're not the only one with permission to pee in the prison," Michonne responded. "Besides, I don't know if you know this, but you take up more room than I do. It's easier to let you get comfortable and then? I just sort of _mold_ around you in the bed."

"I'm not that big!" Andrea barked, realizing that, too, came out louder than she meant.

"And neither are the cots," Michonne replied. "They weren't ever meant to sleep double and they certainly weren't expected to sleep two and then some."

Andrea sighed, but she did lie down. She had to admit that, for the few moments until Michonne would come to the cot and press herself between Andrea's body and the wall, it was a little more comfortable in the bed. That didn't mean, though, that Andrea wanted to give up sleeping with her altogether.

"You're moving to the top bunk, aren't you?" Andrea asked.

"Not tonight," Michonne said. "But eventually, yes."

"What if I make myself really small?" Andrea teased.

Michonne laughed at her and leaned over her, catching her lips in a quick kiss. She shook her head at Andrea as she raised up.

"Not our goal at all," Michonne said. "Our goal is to make you bigger. And if that means me moving to the top bunk? We'll make do with that. I'll still be here. By the time I move up there? I'll be able to get off that bunk before you'll be able to get off this one."

Andrea lifted herself up just enough to catch Michonne's hair from where Michonne was leaning over her. She tugged at it and Michonne took the hint. She leaned down once more and kissed Andrea. This time, ready for it, Andrea made it count a little more than the first.

"Sleep," Michonne said. "Big day tomorrow. I'll be back before you miss me."

"Already miss you," Andrea teased. Michonne hummed at her and quickly dressed before she left the cell to make the same walk that Andrea had made before. Andrea closed her eyes and listened to the sound of Michonne's boots echoing on the concrete floor.

"Everything alright up there, Abraham?" Michonne called, though she wasn't as loud about it as Andrea had purposefully been.

"All quiet," Abraham responded.

"You know what to do," Michonne said. "If you need to."

"Ten-four," Abraham responded.

"If he whistles again," Michonne said, not caring who heard it around the cell block, "personal favor?"

Abraham called back some form of agreement and understanding.

Andrea could still hear the drawn out whistle in her mind—and she doubted it would ever leave that space—but she was fairly confident that she'd never hear the sound again with her waking ears. She closed her eyes tighter, willed herself to sleep, and must have begun to doze a little. The next sound she heard, and only for a moment, was the sound of Michonne sighing as she wrapped herself around her, finding her spot in the tiny bed. And then Andrea smiled to herself when she shivered a little at the feeling of warm breath blowing just across her ear.

"Goodnight—love," Michonne whispered. Andrea didn't know if she heard her whisper it back, equally as soft.

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 **AN: Next chapter we meet some (more) of the people that came with the Governor.**


	59. Chapter 59

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Think about your daughter," Carol said, catching the woman by the arm as they stood on the walkway of the upper level. "You don't want to do this to her."

The little girl, Meghan from what Carol had heard her mother call her, was half-hidden behind her mother. That's how she'd spent all of her time there. The woman was one of the last of the Governor's people to come into the prison, kept safe in a vehicle while they'd been talking, and she'd kept her daughter tucked into one of the cells in the other block until most of them forgot there was even a child with the group.

And now? The woman—Lilly—wanted to be put in the cell with the madman. She wanted to be with him. And she wanted to take her child with her.

Carol had volunteered to let the woman into the cell because she wanted the chance to talk to her, but so far all of her words had fallen on deaf ears. Still, she was going to keep trying. She didn't care that the Governor heard anything she said. She had no concern, whatsoever, about what the man thought of her and she didn't care if he heard her tell the truth about him. There was nothing he could do to her. There was nothing he could do to any of them that were outside the cell—and eventually? She hoped he'd be little more than a bad memory for any of them.

"You've got to think about her," Carol insisted again. "That's no life for her. Locked up in there with him."

"You thought it was just fine for her when you had us locked up in there," Lilly responded, gesturing behind her in the direction they'd come to get there from D Block.

Carol shook her head.

"One mother to another," Carol said, "don't do this. He's dangerous. You didn't see what he did to Andrea. What he did to his people. You'd be sick if you did."

The woman looked at her like, while she was talking, Carol had sprouted another head. Maybe the woman had a right to look at her that way. After all, she had no reason to believe her, not over the man that she was sure that she was in love with—or whatever the case may be.

"You locked us up..." Lilly started.

"For our safety!" Carol interjected quickly. "For our safety. We've been—terrorized by this man long enough. We didn't know what you were like. We still don't, but we're taking a chance. Take a chance on us, but don't lock your daughter up in there when he's—like a ticking bomb."

Lilly started to protest further, but she was interrupted when the Governor spoke from the cell behind them.

"Lilly, you have to forgive Carol," he said. "She's—nervous about having us here. Even though they agreed to welcome us into the prison, they haven't kept up with their end of the bargain. They're nervous that we might follow suit."

Carol shivered involuntarily and looked over her shoulder at him. He was pressed against the bars. It surprised her, sometimes, to actually look at him. He didn't seem capable of everything that she knew him to be capable of doing. Ed had taught her, though, that looks could be deceiving. She never would have thought, in the beginning, that he'd have been capable of half of the things that he'd done.

Carol squared herself up and tried to make herself taller than she really was. She wasn't going to cower in front of him. She was done cowering. She turned her body more toward his.

"If you tried that? If you tried anything? You'd be dead before it was more than a thought," Carol said. His expression changed. His lips curled in a quick smirk that he wiped away. Carol raised her eyebrows at him. "The only question would be who would be the first one to get to you. And..." she added with some hesitation, "I'd be right there with them."

He hummed. The corner of his mouth turned up again slightly. Then, without turning his face from Carol's direction, he turned his eyes to seek out the woman that was still so eager to join him.

"One mother to another," the Governor said, his tone almost mocking. "Daryl told me about your family—the prison is safe. Even now. It promotes growing families. Congratulations to be in such a comfortable position. Congratulations to you both. But—Lilly makes the decisions for her child as surely as you make them for yours. And for other people's...Carol? You'll give my best to Andrea?"

He looked at Carol again. She didn't know what to say to him, though. She didn't even know where to begin. The most she could do was focus on keeping her facial expression from giving away that he'd stumped her response.

"Andrea isn't interested in anything you have to give," Carol finally said. "And neither am I." She looked at Lilly, the woman almost owl-eyed, and Meghan who was hiding just behind her. "You won't change your mind?" Carol asked.

Lilly looked at the Governor, but the man had done something to keep her foolishly under his spell. As far as Carol knew, she hadn't even asked for an explanation about Andrea. She hadn't even been curious about it. She was completely devoted to him, whatever that might mean. She shook her head. Carol nodded.

"Step back," Carol said, directing her voice toward the man again. "All the way against the wall. Your back to me. If you move? At all? I'll shoot you before you can turn around."

The man stepped back from the bars, held his hands up in mock surrender, and laughed quietly.

"I wouldn't do that," he said. "I wouldn't want to upset any of the mothers in this prison. They're all too _delicate_."

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Daryl didn't need to be an educated man to see that Carol had a bone to pick with him when she finally reached him. He'd noticed her when she came out of the prison and she was making a bee line straight for him. He glanced at her a few times while he was finishing what he was doing, shaking the pig feed into the troughs, but she didn't change her direction or her determination.

Her back was straight, almost rigid. Her hands were on her hips. Her lips were drawn up so tight that they'd nearly disappeared. She dodged a chicken without even looking down at the loose animal. The only reason he couldn't hear her coming was because the ground was soft enough to muffle her stomps.

And she stopped directly in front of him. He let go of the nervous laugh that he'd been choking back and scratched at the back of his neck as he turned to face her.

"Why do I got the feelin' I'm about to get my ass handed to me?" Daryl asked.

She wasn't amused.

"What'd you tell him?" Carol asked.

Daryl glanced around. Nobody was paying them any attention. Unless she raised her voice, there wasn't even anybody close enough to them to overhear their conversation. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"You tell me who _him_ is," Daryl bargained, "and I'll tell you what the hell I told him."

Carol looked around too, for a second, and settled her eyes on Daryl. She narrowed them slightly.

"The Governor," she said. "You know who I'm talking about. What'd you tell him, Daryl?"

Daryl shrugged his shoulders.

"I ain't told him a damn thing," Daryl said. "Not that you ain't heard before. Hell—you're up there ninety percent of the time that I am. We're not exactly friends."

"Did you tell him we were—starting a family? Did you tell him I was pregnant?" Carol asked.

Daryl glanced around, this time for help. Then he raised his eyebrows at her again.

"Are you?" He asked, not sure of the answer he was hoping for.

She jumped back. She glanced around herself. Finally her hands dropped from their place on her hips.

"No," she said. "I mean—I don't think so. No."

"You're not or you don't think?" Daryl asked. "Because there's a hell of a line between those two things."

Carol frowned.

"I'm not," she said. "I don't think. I'm not."

Daryl couldn't help it. He knew it was the worst possible place, and the worst possible time for it, the moment that the laugh escaped, but he just couldn't help it. It was coming whether or not he thought it should. And, luckily for him, it was contagious because Carol's serious demeanor shattered too.

"I don't think I am," Carol said, shaking her head and getting control of her laughter. "I mean—I don't think I am."

"I caught that," Daryl said, scratching at his nose. "So why the fuck would I tell the Governor you was?"

"He said something—and it sounded like..." Carol said, but she never did say what it sounded like. She shrugged her shoulders instead of finishing her statement. Still, without the words, and given the context of her accusations, Daryl could muddle his way through figuring out exactly what it sounded like.

"Tryin' to get your goat?" Daryl asked. "And it sure looks like he did."

Carol frowned.

"So you didn't say anything?" She asked.

Daryl sucked in a breath and tried to go back through the conversations he'd had with the man. The Governor was obnoxiously chatty, especially at night, and it seemed that no amount of threats would shut him up. Unless they were actually prepared to shoot the man for talking, they simply had to let him sit and chatter on.

For the most part, and Daryl knew this, he was trying to make himself _human_ to them. He was trying to make himself relatable. He wanted them to think of him as a human being and not just as a prisoner that they were pretty sure they'd eventually kill. He was trying to win them over. It wasn't working.

Still, sometimes, just to ward off the boredom, Daryl engaged him—but never with the feeling that the Governor was hoping for. He'd just respond, half-heartedly, every now and again to keep himself from going crazy. It was the same thing he used to do when he'd enter into completely inane conversations with a ridiculously intoxicated Merle to keep his brain somewhat entertained.

He shrugged at Carol.

"I don't even remember half the shit he's said," Daryl said. "He knows we're together—but it don't take a genius to figure that out. He's asked me more'n once about us having a family. I told him we did. Told him there was a kid. But I didn't tell him anything, really, about Sophia."

Carol swallowed visibly and nodded. Daryl chewed his lip.

"Told him that we'd talked about it, I guess. He was saying something—one time—about having kids these days. The whole shit happens kinda thing. I said something like it weren't shit if you wanted it to happen. Said it could be a good thing. Guess..." Daryl continued, but like Carol he let things drop before he finished them. He didn't have to finish them. She always seemed capable of finishing things for him.

"He took it the wrong way," Carol said.

"Sorry," Daryl offered. "I was just—runnin' my mouth." He laughed to himself. "It was late. I didn't even know what I was saying."

Carol shook her head at him.

"Don't be sorry," she said. "You didn't do anything wrong. Not really. And—if it were true?"

She didn't finish that either. She didn't have to. Daryl just nodded along with her. If it were true, they'd both be happy. As happy as their lives allowed for now. They'd figure it out and they'd promise themselves—and each other—that they'd figure it out with as few mistakes as was humanly possible.

"You upset?" Daryl asked.

Carol dropped her eyes to the ground.

"Not anymore," she said, even if her voice didn't fully match her words. "You?" She asked, bringing her eyes back up to him. He shook his head gently in response. "He told me to give Andrea his best."

Daryl chuckled to himself.

"Reckon he already done that," Daryl said. Carol narrowed her eyes at him again. She was pretending, this time, that she was mad. The expression, though she thought it was the same, was a little different than the one she wore when she was genuinely ready to rip into him. He smiled at her. "Didn't mean nothin'," he offered as apology.

"She's moving into the cell with him," Carol said.

"Andrea?" Daryl asked, his stomach doing a strange flip that he wouldn't have expected from it.

Carol shook her head.

"The woman. Lilly. With her daughter," Carol said.

"You can't talk to stupid," Daryl offered.

"That little girl..." Carol said.

"Is not your problem," Daryl interjected quickly, cutting Carol off. He was a little concerned about the child himself, but the last thing he wanted was Carol worrying herself sick about it. And he knew her well enough to know that she would. She'd take it personally. "He won't do anything. Not to the woman or the kid. He's on his best behavior right now."

"Just because he wants Andrea," Carol said. "He wants that baby."

Daryl nodded gently.

"And maybe that's the bargaining chip we use to get the woman and the kid out," Daryl said. Quickly he held a hand up to Carol. "I don't mean giving him what he wants. I mean making him think that we're going to. Or even just getting Andrea to talk some sense into the woman. But that woman is a grown ass adult and there's nothin' that we can do about her or what she decides to do."

"The little girl doesn't have a choice," Carol said.

Daryl hummed, struck by her words.

"Maybe that's what we give her," he said. "Lemme talk to somebody? Think on it? He ain't doin' nothing right now. And there's things that have to be done. Already cold."

Carol nodded at him. She looked solemn and he hated that expression on her face. He'd give anything he had—even though he really had next to nothing—just to see a different look on her face for even a little while.

"You still pissed at me?" He asked. She shook her head gently. He bit back a smile. "Don't believe you," he responded.

She replied by coming close to him, catching him at the sides, and bringing herself up to kiss him. He returned the kiss—not caring at all how many witnesses they might have besides the pigs that were enjoying their dinner theater.


	60. Chapter 60

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here. More to come when I get a chance.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne let Andrea sleep in. The cell was empty when Andrea woke and there was enough light to let her know that it was later in the day than when she would normally wake. The day before she'd spent much of the day in the cell. She wasn't exactly _hiding_ there, but it felt secure and comfortable, especially with so many of the Governor's new people out roaming around their space. She was under orders from Hershel to relax—the contractions from a few days before having given him a bit of concern—and she told herself that's all she was doing. She stayed in her cell, feet up, and read a book that she'd never read before that was missing the first seven chapters. She'd hated to inconvenience Michonne—bringing her meals and checking on her—but her companion had promised her that it wasn't an inconvenience and she liked doing it. She could have easily found someone else to do it for her.

This morning, though, there was a new ache in her belly and Andrea hoped it was only some kind of missed-meal cramps. She woke up starving and by the time she was dressed, she was nearly ready to eat anything she thought she might be able to digest. Andrea left the cell and went directly outside where she knew Carol usually built the fire in the pit for cooking. The fire was already out, the food was gone, and Andrea nearly wanted to drop to her knees and cry over the missed opportunity for _something_.

She didn't have to mourn long, though. As soon as her eyes were well-adjusted to the sunlight, she heard Carol call her name and the woman appeared carrying one of the mail boxes she used to haul crunchy laundry in from the line.

"You're not cold?" Carol asked.

Andrea only then realized that, while she was comfortable in the thin cotton dress, Carol was wearing a sweater to ward off the chill of the coming cold weather.

"Hot—and dying," Andrea said.

Carol reached her and furrowed her brow.

"What's wrong?" Carol asked.

"I know we're—rationing. But—do I have permission to go into the storage area and just _eat_?" Andrea asked.

Carol laughed at her and put the box down for a moment. She put a hand on Andrea's shoulder and pushed her toward the picnic tables that sat in the yard. Andrea went with her, but the tables didn't hold that much interest for her if there was no picnic to be had.

"So she's finally making some demands," Carol teased. "It's about time. No morning sickness. No cravings. No complaints about being hungry or overly tired—I was starting to doubt that you were pregnant at all." She practically pushed Andrea toward one of the benches connected to the table and Andrea sat. She didn't feel she had a great deal of choice in the matter. "Relax," Carol said. "I'll bring you—what's left of breakfast. It won't be great. And it's cold."

Andrea felt oddly overwhelmed enough that she almost cried at the offer.

"It's fine if it's cold or—whatever," Andrea said. "I shouldn't have slept through breakfast. I'll eat anything right now."

Carol laughed at her.

"Hold onto that," Carol said. "It's Beth's oatmeal."

Andrea shrugged.

"I actually kind of like Beth's oatmeal," she said. "It's a little salty and—I like that the lumps give you something to _chew_. It makes it feel like you're really eating something more substantial."

Carol reached and rubbed her belly.

"You really are pregnant," she teased. "And baby's got some interesting tastes. Stay put. I'll be back."

Andrea turned around and adjusted herself to sit comfortably at the table. She watched as people were working in the yard almost like they were ants—scurrying back and forth. The cold was coming. That's what they all kept saying like it was a mantra for their lives. They had to keep going. They had to work. They wanted everything as done as it could possibly be so that they could simply hunker down and wait out the winter—the winter that would bring even more changes to Andrea's world than it did to most.

Michonne was outside the fences. Andrea could spot her from where she was sitting. She was helping finish up a second layer of protection around the fences. There were new faces too, and Andrea knew they had to belong to those who had come in with the Governor. She was relieved to see that many of them seemed to be making some effort to help out. They seemed to be playing along well with the rest of the prison. Maybe it wouldn't be long before they didn't even feel _new_ there.

Carol returned and passed Andrea a bowl full of the half-congealed remains of breakfast that had been made in bulk. Once, Andrea was sure, it would've turned her stomach. At the moment, however, she gladly accepted it and offered her thanks.

"It's gotta hold you for a little while," Carol said. "But—I'm going to see if I can't crunch some numbers and sneak you a snack later. Glenn and Maggie went out, with a few of the new people, to try and get some more supplies. I think we're going to have plenty."

"I won't sleep through breakfast again," Andrea teased. "Just in case."

Carol hummed.

"I'll put yours to the side, first thing—just in case," she responded. "I'm doing the laundry. Eat. Relax. If you get bored? You can help me with some odd jobs."

Andrea nodded and thanked Carol again before she dived into the oatmeal. As it often did, it had the distinct taste of "Beth's oatmeal". There was something that she must do it, when no one was looking, to give it the distinct flavor, but nobody really knew what it was. If they'd have known, most of them would have fought each other over the chance to stop her.

"Wow—you're pretty desperate to eat that," a voice said.

Andrea froze because it wasn't a voice that she was accustomed to and it was coming up behind her. She put her spoon down and swallowed through what was in her mouth before she turned her head. A woman was standing there—though the term woman was stretching her age a little perhaps—and seeing that she had Andrea's attention, she offered a smile.

"Can I?" She asked, gesturing toward the table.

Andrea didn't make a move to invite her to sit nor to reject her the opportunity. She might have expected her to sit on the bench across from her, allowing them both to remain in possession of their personal space, but instead the woman sat down on the bench right next to her like they were the best of friends sharing high school lunch. Andrea hesitated a moment before returning to the oatmeal. She inched her way over a bit to put some distance between her and the new woman.

"You're Andrea," the woman said.

Andrea eyed her. She sighed and gave up on the food once more.

"And I have no idea who you are," Andrea said.

The woman smiled.

"It's a little bit easier with you," the woman said. "I'm Tara."

Andrea nodded her head.

"Nice to meet you," she said, but she was aware that there wasn't much feeling behind it. She didn't have much feeling to give just yet unless she could somehow pass over her hunger or the generalized anxiety that she was learning to deal with as simply a new part of her life.

Tara echoed the sentiment, though perhaps with a little more enthusiasm and authenticity than Andrea.

"So—it's true? Your baby is Brian's baby?" Tara asked, after she'd pretended to survey the yard for a second.

Andrea's stomach flipped and suddenly she wasn't so sure that she even wanted the rest of the oatmeal in front of her when, only a brief window of time before, she'd mourned how little there actually was in the bowl.

"No," Andrea said. "It's _not_ true. You know—I don't even know who _Brian_ is. The man that—the man who..." She broke off. There wasn't a delicate way of saying things. She had Tara's attention, but she didn't know what to say exactly. The Governor was the biological father of her child and everyone knew that. However, she felt like she spent most of her waking hours these days simply telling herself that the fact alone didn't make him the _father_. Any rights he'd had to call himself that had passed the moment that he'd closed the handcuffs that held Andrea to the dentist chair. She shook her head at Tara. "He was Phillip when I knew him. And really? I didn't even know him then. I thought I did—but I didn't. And then? He was just—a _monster_. I really don't even know how there _is_ a baby. So—no, it's not _Brian's_ baby."

Tara licked her lips. She rocked her whole body in an effort to simply nod her head. She looked thoroughly scolded and any hint of the smile she'd been wearing before was gone. She looked in Andrea's direction, but she didn't look her in the eyes.

"He tried to save my dad's life," Tara said. "He risked his own—just to try. I wasn't sure about him at first, but my sister? My niece. Me? We probably wouldn't have made it if it wasn't for Brian."

For as much as Tara might find it difficult to look Andrea in the eye, Andrea didn't particularly want to look at her either.

"I'm glad you had such a good experience," Andrea said, not really meaning it. She found that the words stuck in her throat and made a heat radiate through her body. She wondered if she might have the first round of morning sickness that Carol seemed to have been waiting for all this time—even though she had thought she was safely out of the appropriate time period for such a thing. Her mouth tasted salty and she was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the abandoned oatmeal. She swallowed repeatedly to try to keep the food she'd consumed at bay. "He saved my life too. Or he had it saved. In the beginning. Michonne called it the...Messiah complex. He saved lives, but only those that—he wanted to save. He took lives too."

"I just want to understand," Tara said. "What happened? How did—all this happen? He promised us that we'd be safe here, once all of you were gone. He told us that you were the bad guys."

Andrea repeatedly swallowed. It was the only thing that she could do in an effort to fight the nausea.

"You're safe here now," Andrea said. "This prison was never his to take. He wanted it because—he didn't have it. He had some grudges against people here. He has a—a—big way of handling those grudges. When I did something he didn't want to do? And I came here to warn my friends? That he was planning on _killing_ them? He—handcuffed me to a chair and he tortured me. I don't even know how long. And when he was done? He killed a man—a friend of mine. Someone who trusted him. And he left him to die. Slowly. So that he would turn and, in turn? He would kill me."

"That just doesn't seem like something he would do," Tara said. "I mean...I'm not saying you're lying. I believe you. But it just seems a little..."

Andrea didn't hear what she might have used as an adjective to describe the action. Over-the-top was a possibility, going on what she'd said. Dramatic, maybe. Andrea didn't hear it, though, because she excused herself from the table as quickly as she could. Her intention, originally, was to make it to the bathrooms—but they were inside the prison and a decent distance away. The most she managed was to rush down the side of the prison at the closest she could come to a full run. She reached the end of the building and turned the corner, touching the wall to act as a guide, before she dropped to her knees and gave over to the feeling of nausea.

She was embarrassed even before she could get control of her heaving, but there wasn't anything to be done about it. There wasn't enough in her stomach to make some great show of things, but her body seemed to have decided to violently eject everything that it could find.

She jumped when she felt a hand on her back and she turned quickly, her hand over her mouth to hide the continued gagging, prepared to slap away anyone who was unwelcome to touch her at the moment.

"That's probably the most honest critique of the food I've seen around here," Abraham said. "Do you like sitting with your ass in the dirt or do you need a hand?"

"I..." Andrea started, meaning to offer some kind of explanation for herself, but she retched again before she was able to get more than that out and Abraham backed up a half a step before he returned and put a hand on her back again.

"You're done," he said, catching her under the arms and practically lifting her to her feet. "You don't know it yet. Your brain hasn't caught up with your stomach. But it's done." He hugged Andrea into him. "Let's go find Carol. This looks a lot more like her problem than mine."


	61. Chapter 61

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"It's called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," Michonne said. "And it's nothing to be ashamed of. Every one of us, probably, has it in some form or another." Andrea sat, stretched out on the bed, and stared at her feet. "You will _relax_ and you will _stay in here_ until you feel better. And if you need to leave a situation? You will _leave_ it. You don't have to _explain_ yourself. You don't owe anyone an _apology_. The rest of us left our trauma behind. Yours is all around you."

"Thank you, doctor," Andrea responded. "But I don't want to stay in here. I don't want to hide from the world."

"Then don't," Michonne said. "But—don't feel ashamed to just tell someone you're done with a conversation. There are a lot of new people here who are going to have a lot of questions about all of us. You don't owe them an answer to anything that you don't feel ready to talk about." Andrea hummed. "You certainly don't owe them a detailed account of what happened to you. If they need to know that badly? They can ask one of us."

"Did you talk to her or would you like me to come in again?" Hershel called from outside the cell.

Michonne paced around the cell and chewed at her bottom lip. Hershel had already been in there. He'd already talked to Andrea. Carol had talked to Andrea.

Michonne didn't want to keep talking to her. To keep talking _at_ her. She just wished she could _protect_ her. Not just from the physical presence of the Governor, which was easily enough done with the cell, but from the _emotional_ presence of the man as well. She wished that she could erase the visions that she knew were just seconds away—the sights and sounds that woke Andrea out of her sleep almost every night. She wished that, somehow, she could protect her from the questions of everyone who was new to the prison and walking around with more curiosity than they could handle about the situation.

But Michonne couldn't protect Andrea from any of that. The most that she could do, honestly, was promise her that the man had touched her for the last time in his physical form.

Ignoring Hershel for a moment, Michonne looked at Andrea again. She was simply sitting there, like someone being scolded, waiting for the punishment to be over, staring at her feet stretched out on the bed in front of her.

Michonne shook her head and went to the bed. She settled in and forced Andrea to move to the side to give her enough room so that she didn't topple into the floor. She wrapped her arms around Andrea.

"I'm not mad at you," Michonne said. "I'm not even upset. I'm just bothered that _you_ got upset. That's all. I just don't want to see _you_ get hurt anymore."

"I should be able to talk about it," Andrea said.

"And you will, one day, without it affecting you at all," Michonne said. "We're asking you to move on from it too quickly. The fact of the matter was that you _trusted_ him. You trusted him and he nearly killed you. And now? You're having a baby on top of that—and you haven't had time to deal with any of it. But—if you feel like you can, she's outside and she wants to talk to you."

Michonne tensed up. She knew it was a lot to ask and she was against it herself. Hershel thought, though, that letting Andrea talk to the young woman—Tara—now that she'd had a chance to calm down and see things clearly would allow her to maybe see that the woman didn't have bad intentions. She was, like the rest of them, simply on a journey to understand her situation.

Andrea didn't respond immediately.

"If you don't want to," Michonne offered, "you don't have to."

Andrea nodded at her. She sighed and wiggled around on the bed. Michonne moved to allow her freedom to do whatever she might be thinking about doing. Andrea turned to sit on the edge of the bed and Michonne stood again.

"What do you want me to tell her?" Michonne asked.

"Tell her that she can come in," Andrea said. Her voice sounded heavy. She sounded like she was being forced into it. It wasn't the way that Michonne wanted her to enter into anything—not right now.

"I think it's better if we tell her to come back," Michonne said. "Maybe tomorrow..."

"Tell her to come in, Mich," Andrea said, a little more force in her voice. There was maybe even a touch of anger or frustration there. "I _have_ to talk about it. I have to tell them what happened. If I don't? If we never say anything about it? They're all going to be walking around her believing that we're horrible people who lock people up—take away their rights—for no reason at all. Tell her to come in."

Michonne sighed and nodded. She stepped out of the cell and turned the corner to where Hershel was standing, just out of sight of their cell, with Tara. Michonne hadn't actually spoken to the young woman, but Hershel and Carol both had, and they promised her that Tara's intentions, although she was closely "tied" to the Governor, weren't bad. Michonne walked up to the woman and couldn't help but notice that Tara regarded her—her big doe eyes wide and unblinking—like she was afraid of her.

She didn't know her. And she was afraid of her. And right now? That was exactly what Michonne wanted.

"She'll talk to you," Michonne said. "But—I'm going to be in there. If at any time she asks you to leave? You leave, understand?"

"I never meant..." Tara started.

"Understand?" Michonne repeated, interrupting the young woman. She got a nod of the head. "And if I ask you to leave? You leave," Michonne added. "It's as simple as that. Our cell. Our _home_. Our _sanctuary_. You leave when you're asked to leave." Tara nodded her head.

"Take it easy on her, Michonne?" Hershel said, his voice soft. He was trying to soothe Michonne with his tone of voice. She knew exactly what he was doing.

"Andrea doesn't need this," Michonne said, directing her words to Hershel even though Tara was standing right there. "None of this. She's the victim here."

Hershel chuckled.

"She's strong enough that it hardly seems fair to call her a victim," Hershel mused. "Even if it's true. I've had a talk with Tara. I don't think she's here to victimize Andrea any more. Just...keep that in mind?" Michonne didn't say, one way or another, that she'd keep Hershel's words in mind, but apparently he thought her silence spoke for her. He nodded his head. "You'll know where to find me," he said. "If you need me."

Michonne showed Tara into the cell. Andrea had somewhat straightened herself up and was sitting on the edge of the bed. She still looked almost as shaky as she had when Abraham had brought her inside, but the color was back in her face.

"Andrea?" Michonne said, catching her attention. "This is Tara. Tara...Andrea."

"We've met," Andrea offered. "And this? Is Michonne."

Tara glanced back and forth between them before she finally walked over to the bed where Andrea was sitting.

"Can I?" She asked, gesturing toward the bed.

Andrea nodded and Tara went to sit on the bed. She sat right next to Andrea, practically touching her, and then she glanced at Michonne before she moved enough to put a half-inch of space between them.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Tara said. "I know it's not worth much, but I was just making conversation. Ever since you came to talk to us the first time—it's kind of all anybody's been talking about." Tara shrugged. "How you could be—and decide that he should be..."

Clearly not confident, at the moment, in what she should or shouldn't say, Tara left much of her communication to gestures. Andrea nodded at her, though, and Michonne watched Andrea's face for any sign of distress. Tara continued to apologize, weaving the most complicated apology that Michonne had heard in a great deal of time, and finally Andrea simply cut her off by saying that it was "OK." She wasn't upset. There were no hard feelings. There was no need to apologize. Or, really, she was probably simply saying that there was no need for Tara to keep going since she might not ever actually arrive at a proper apology.

Michonne's presence was clearly making her a bit nervous. She kept casting glances in Michonne's direction. And, for the moment, Michonne wasn't trying to soften herself for the woman's comfort.

"I have something to say," Michonne said, finally. She had, all at once, the attention of both Andrea and Tara. She straightened herself up from her stance of leaning against the cell wall. "I want you to tell everyone in your group. Everyone who has questions that—they're allowed to ask what they want. Anything they want to know? We'll be happy to answer it for them. But they ask me. Just me. Not Andrea. Because—that's my baby too. And she hasn't had a moment's peace for the whole time she's been in existence. And I'd just like to know that she gets three months—just her last three months—to grow like she's supposed to grow and not to develop in a pool of adrenaline and stress hormones. Is that clear? Anything you want to know? Ask _me_."

Tara glanced at Andrea this time, but Andrea didn't say anything. She didn't disagree with Michonne or try to change the command that she'd made in any way. If anything, Michonne thought she visibly relaxed a little more.

"Yeah," Tara said. "Yeah—of course. I'll—tell them. Whoever you want me to tell. I'll tell them to talk to you. I think that Lilly's just wondering what's going to happen—we're all wondering what's going to happen."

Michonne sighed.

"For at least three months? Nothing's going to happen. I don't think that's a sentence that's too long for a man who thinks it's appropriate to torture and murder people," Michonne said. "So that's the minimum amount of time he's serving. When it's up? And we're ready to deal with it? We'll figure it out. But for now? He stays in that cell. And if he should get out? In any way? He's agreed that he'd rather go ahead and accept the death penalty. You can tell _him_ that if you feel so inclined. That's my stance on it and I'd dare you or anyone else in this prison to challenge me on it."

"Mich..." Andrea said, softly scolding Michonne. A glance in her direction and Michonne could see the woman shaking her head at her gently. It didn't matter, though. For the time being she'd gotten Tara's attention—and Tara would pass her warning on to the others.

"They can talk to me," Michonne said, softening her tone just a touch.

Tara looked at Andrea, then, and it looked like Tara might be the one who needed to vomit this time. Michonne tried to hide the fact that, honestly, she was a little pleased with the reaction. It made her feel at least a little secure that things would go her way—that there would be some peace—even if it only happened that way because she was practically bullying an already frightened young woman.

"Can I ask you about—just _regular_ things?" Tara asked Andrea. "It's a little rude. Not to talk to you at all."

Andrea smiled at her and laughed quietly. She nodded.

"You can ask me anything," Andrea said. She glanced at Michonne. "And if I feel like it's something I don't want to answer? I'll send you to Michonne. How's that?"

Tara nodded her acceptance of such a proposal.

"You said _she,_ is the baby a girl?" Tara asked.

"We don't..." Michonne started, but Andrea eyed her. Michonne waved her hand at her and gave Andrea the "right of way" to speak for herself.

"I'm pretty sure it's a girl," Andrea said. "At least, I feel like she's a girl. I feel like she _has_ to be a girl. So that's what we're calling her."

"Names?" Tara asked, glancing at Michonne before she returned her eyes to Andrea. Andrea shook her head. "Is she moving?" Tara asked.

Without asking, she reached her hand out and flattened her palm against Andrea's belly. Andrea tensed and Michonne started to introduce herself into the scenario, but then she stopped and held herself back. She was going to let Andrea handle it. She was going to let her decide what she wanted to say and what she didn't want to say.

Andrea put her hand over Tara's and moved it.

"She's not," Andrea said. "But you wouldn't feel her there. You'd feel her here. She's more—active here. But she's not really doing anything right now. She hasn't been moving much today."

"Probably hiding," Michonne offered. "After everything? She's probably hiding."

"And hungry," Tara offered. "I kinda ruined your breakfast. I'm sorry for that."

Andrea offered another brief explanation to Tara that an apology wasn't necessary. She was forgiven. All of it was forgiven. Andrea wasn't going to hold it against her. If she were going to? Tara would know it by now. Of course, Tara didn't have to know all of that. She was only interested in knowing that Andrea didn't hold a grudge.

"You want to make up for it?" Michonne offered.

Tara nodded.

"Then go see if Carol's got anything for lunch?" Michonne said. "And—while you're out there? Start spreading the news. I'm fielding the questions—unless they're simple, non-toxic questions."

Tara nodded and stood up.

"I can do that," she said. "I'm real good jobs like that. Giving messages and getting lunch? I can handle it."

Michonne bit back her desire to smile at the woman's enthusiasm.

"Then at least we know where to put you," Michonne said. "Come on—I'll walk you out. I've got work to do on the fences anyway and Andrea's got important business to take care of."

"Business?" Andrea asked.

"Lunch," Michonne said. "And a nap. I'll find you later."


	62. Chapter 62

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! (Or that there's anyone out there...)**

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Michonne had declared peace at the prison, and it was practically peace under penalty of death for anyone who didn't follow the order. She'd declared that Andrea was to be approached only with the classic childhood idea of "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all" and any inquiries were to be addressed to someone else. Anyone found in violation of this, from what Carol understood, stood the very real chance of being beheaded. Whether or not Michonne's method was traditional, though, it seemed to be working. Overall there _was_ something like peace around the prison. Things calmed under her declaration that she would accept nothing less. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to find out if she was bluffing or not.

Carol, for her part, was getting to know more of their "newest" members, but for the most part she minded her business and stuck closest to those who seemed most fond of her.

Everyone was too busy, at any rate, to pay much attention to anyone else. It was cold, threatening to get colder, and they were wrapping up their preparations for the winter. If things went well, they'd have electricity, thanks to the solar panels, throughout their cell block and they'd avoid freezing to death—even if they couldn't entirely avoid going stir crazy.

Today the prison, like most days, was a flurry of activity. Outside the prison, too, was busy. They were making final runs, gathering up the last things they could before what Carol was jokingly referring to as the Georgia "deep freeze".

And Carol could hear the last of the trucks returning for the day. It would be Glenn and the four other people that he'd taken with him. She didn't know everything he might have picked up, but she'd talked to him before he left and she knew some of the things that he planned to be delivering.

Carol slipped into the prison and found Andrea where she knew that she'd be. She'd been given the job of sorting, in their established storage room, the boxes of items from the other runs that they'd gone on. She was seated in a chair and was humming to herself as she stacked cans on the shelf directly in front of her.

"Can you come out front?" Carol asked. Andrea jumped and snatched her head quickly in Carol's direction—a clear indication that she'd been deeply involved in her thoughts—and Carol held her hands up. "Sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean to startle you. Can you come out front for a few minutes?"

"Now?" Andrea asked.

"Well, you've got a few minutes," Carol said. "But I thought I'd be nice and give you some time to—you know, _get up_."

Andrea made a face at her and Carol offered her a smile in return. More than any of them, Andrea was physically marking the passage of time and they assumed she was easily seven months pregnant, if not beyond that mark. And whether her baby was big, as some people suggested, or Andrea was simply thin from their somewhat limited diet, she was showing every bit of those seven months of pregnancy.

And since Carol spent more time with her than anyone else, Michonne aside, Carol was going to tease her as much as was humanly possible.

"What is it?" Andrea asked.

"Does it matter?" Carol responded.

"It does if I'm getting up from here," Andrea said. "If it's not important, then I'd rather just stay. But—if it's something that's going to take a while? I'm going to have to go pee first."

Carol laughed to herself, seeing that Andrea was more than willing to tease along with her at the moment, and crossed the floor to where Andrea was sitting. She offered a hand out to the woman and helped her up, even if Andrea could have gotten up on her own.

"It won't take that long," Carol said. "And it's important. I don't think you'll want to miss it."

Andrea sighed and nodded at her. She held still a moment, allowed Carol to affectionately rub her belly, and then she walked with Carol outside. They reached the courtyard in time to see Glenn just finishing his "pep talk" and giving congratulations to his run crew.

When Glenn saw them, he dismissed Tara, the last person that he'd been speaking to, and walked around to the back of the truck. It was a delivery truck that they'd gotten running a few weeks back and the back of the truck rolled up easily to display that they had loaded the thing down with as much as it could possibly hold. He walked over to where Carol and Andrea were standing and Carol tried not to smile at the fact that he looked every bit as awkward and nervous as he possibly could.

"Carol. Andrea," he said as greeting. Both of them greeted him in response, but it was clear that his main focus of the moment was on Andrea. Carol wasn't offended in the slightest. She'd been expecting this since he'd come to her to talk just after he'd finished his breakfast. "How—how are you feeling?" Glenn asked, directing his question to Andrea.

Now Andrea was looking at Carol like she was waiting for some explanation or the punchline of a joke. Carol simply nodded her head at the woman.

"I'm fine," Andrea said, her words coming out like she wasn't sure that she meant them.

"Good," Glenn said. "That's good. That you're doing fine. Listen I don't really know what to say or—or even really how to say it. So I'm just going to say it. I thought about it and—Michonne is always working here. We keep her busy with the fences and really, thanks to her coming up with some good ideas, we've got really safe fences for the winter. I mean—the Walkers don't even get close to them anymore. And I was thinking that—that it really doesn't leave much time for her to do anything for _you_. For either of you. And you're pregnant and the baby's going to come soon and—you really don't have _anything._ "

Andrea looked at Carol again and Carol nodded her head again. She didn't know how to communicate to Andrea that she was here for moral support and nothing more. She was silent support. She hadn't set this up. She hadn't introduced the idea. It was Glenn's idea from start to finish. All Carol had done was give him a list of suggestions at his request.

Because Andrea and Michonne really had nothing between them. Between the two of them, they had the cell that they called home, enough clothes to keep them both from going naked, Judith's old and outgrown mailbox, and about two blankets and some baby outfits that Judith had outgrown before they were too worn to really pass down.

At the rate they were going, they weren't going to be even remotely prepared for the baby's arrival.

Glenn had noticed it too. On his own. And he'd come to Carol about it.

"We've got a crib," Andrea said. "And—some clothes. Blankets."

"You've got a mailbox," Carol corrected quickly. "Two outfits and two blankets. And you'll have to beg diapers off of Rick. Believe me, whether or not you know it, a baby can go through everything you've got in less than a day."

Glenn looked a little uncomfortable. He hadn't been prepared for Andrea to try to refuse his offer—an offer that he hadn't even made yet.

"I got you a bed," Glenn said. "It's like the one that Maggie and I got so I know it'll fit in the cell. We'll put it in there. Bedding too. Pillows. Extra ones. Blankets. You're pregnant. You should have somewhere nice to sleep. And—I got a crib. A pack and play, actually, but Carol said that was a better idea. It's like Judith's. There are boxes of baby clothes, cloth diapers, pacifiers, blankets. If it was baby related, I picked up a couple of them."

Andrea glanced toward the truck.

"I'm not going to need all that," she said.

"Then it'll be here for someone who does," Carol said. "Don't think you're the only person in the prison that's capable of having a baby. I have a feeling that—after winter? There could very well be a few announcements brought about by the cold weather."

"I didn't..." Andrea stammered, clearly surprised. "I mean I don't. But..."

Carol leaned closer to her.

"I think now is when you say thank you," Carol said.

"Thank you," Andrea said as something of a knee jerk response, still eying the back of the truck. Carol was looking at it too because it was loaded down and she could see that there were at least two beds on there. Glenn had promised her, when she'd put in the special request, that he'd snag one for her cell as well. Sleeping on a prison cot was starting to get old, to say the least. "But, Glenn? What's Maggie going to say?"

Glenn nodded his head like he'd expected the question. When Andrea had first gotten to the prison, Maggie had treated her like she was Judas. Now Maggie kept peace with Michonne by ignoring Andrea's presence almost entirely. It wasn't the kindest arrangement, but it seemed to work.

"She knows," Glenn said. "And she's glad that we did the run. We talked about it and...we realized that it's not your fault. Maggie's mad at the Governor, and so am I, for what he did. But it wasn't you that did it. You didn't know what he was doing or you wouldn't have let everything that happened to you happen. And—it's clear that you're not with him. We'd both like to let things go." Glenn looked around and then he looked back at Andrea, still clearly struggling to feel like he'd said all that he had to say. He'd managed it easier, that morning, when he'd been talking to Carol. Having an audience that he felt was _judging_ him seemed to make it a little harder. "I was thinking about—how much things have changed," Glenn offered. "I was out here last night, helping get the trucks ready, and I was thinking about Dale. I just thought—if he were here? He'd probably be pretty happy about this baby. He'd be pretty excited for you. And—I don't think he'd be too happy with me."

"If you didn't get me things," Andrea offered.

"If I didn't do _something_ for you when you _needed_ it," Glenn said. "We're still family." He shrugged. "I guess I'm just—hoping we can get back to being the family that we used to be."

Carol felt her own stomach twisting in knots. She didn't know, any more than Glenn did, how Andrea might react. She liked to believe that Andrea would be pleased with the peace offering, but it was hard to tell. Sometimes people didn't bounce back from being treated badly quite as quick as those burying the hatchet might wish.

Andrea pleasantly surprised Carol, though, when she responded to Glenn by simply opening her arms to him. He hesitated a moment, but then he accepted her offered hug and sunk into it. When he returned it, it was clear that it was sincere.

"That means you forgive me?" Glenn asked, some hint of humor to his voice.

"Of course," Andrea said. "And—thank you. I didn't want to say anything but—I was getting a little worried that we weren't going to have anything we needed."

Glenn laughed quietly.

"Well, now you've got everything you need and then some," he said. "I didn't really know how much stuff babies use, so I just got most of what would fit in the truck. I guess—this means I'm going to be something like an uncle soon?"

Andrea pulled out of the hug and wiped at her eyes with her fingertips. She laughed at Glenn's comment and nodded her head.

"Yeah," she said. "I think that would be alright. She's going to need a couple of uncles."

Glenn smiled and put a hand on Andrea's back, pulling her in the direction of the truck.

"Come on—I'll show you what we got and I'll get a hand unloading it," he said.

Carol, for her part, left them be and slipped away as quietly as she'd been while overseeing everything. She had to find Daryl and let him know that there might be a few things on that truck that he needed to help unload. After all, Glenn was more than happy to pick up things for she and Daryl both when she had offered to stand there as moral support—and as a mediator if such a position had been necessary.


	63. Chapter 63

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"I know the run was for Andrea," Carol said, "but this bed alone is worth sending them out."

She was stretched out as much as she could be on the mattress while Daryl hugged her back. The mattress was an actual mattress. It wasn't a cushion on top of a hard piece of metal that was designed to remind them that they deserved a life of punishment and denial of the nicer things. The thick blanket that Glenn had brought back for them was soft and fluffy and warm. Both of them able to fit on the bed at the same time, with neither of them constantly feeling smashed into the wall or like they were about to fall on the floor, made lying in bed together something that was as nice and relaxing as it should be.

At that very moment, Carol would have had a difficult time figuring out any other way she might have described what she believed heaven to be like or even what she hoped it might be.

Daryl wasn't complaining either, if he had anything to complain about. He'd put in a day's work clearing both Andrea and Michonne's cell and their cell. With the help of some of the others, he'd gotten the bed frames built in both, and he'd gotten the mattresses in place. Then, after they'd made the beds up with clean sheets and the new pillows and blankets, he'd been part of the crew that helped move the furniture back in that would remain in the cell.

Tomorrow, he'd already promised Andrea that he would help put together anything that needed to be put together for the baby's arrival and he'd set up the empty cell next to Andrea's cell to serve as something of a nursery for the child that would, hopefully, eventually become the child's "room". For now, though, everything else that Glenn had brought back from the run had just been piled up in the prison to wait out the night since the baby wasn't due to come tonight and there was no rush on preparation that hadn't even been priority in the past six or seven months.

"You gonna go to sleep?" Daryl asked. "Or you staying up all night to greet the bed?"

Carol laughed to herself.

They'd already christened it. They'd had the new mattress less than twelve hours and they'd already "broken it in". Carol wasn't under the impression, though, that they were the only ones that had the same idea. The prison was far from sound proof and Andrea and Michonne had gone to bed early even for Hershel's standards.

There was no reason not to be sleeping.

"You're anxious to get up in the morning?" Carol asked.

Daryl hummed.

"Not gonna pretend there ain't a lot to do," he said. "Going up on the roof in the morning. Help Tyreese some with those panels. The more we get done, the more electricity we have. The smoother this winter passes. And—I don't know if you saw that pile that Glenn hauled in here, but I don't know how much of that I gotta put together tomorrow."

"There's really not that much to put together," Carol assured him. "A lot of that's going into storage. Andrea's baby won't need it all. There's enough to equip several new mothers with everything they're going to need. It's just that—she's going to need it _first_."

"What the hell we need all the extra for?" Daryl asked.

"Because we have a lot of people here now. And because winter will be long and cold and people will be trying to keep warm," Carol said. "I have a really good feeling that Andrea won't be the only one bringing a little one into the world. That baby and Judith will have others to play with. Besides—I told Glenn that if it was there, and if it would fit on the truck, there wasn't any harm in being prepared for anything that might happen."

Daryl hummed again and moved around enough to get closer to Carol. He pulled her against him, his arm wrapped around her body.

"I'll put Andrea's shit together because Michonne's busting her ass getting the last of that fencing up," Daryl said, "but I'm not putting nobody else's shit together. Everybody can put their own shit together. I'm not the damn furniture fairy."

Carol laughed to herself and pulled loose from his vice-like hold so that she could roll and face him. It was dark. They'd blown their lamp out hours ago and there wasn't much light from elsewhere reaching their cell.

"Don't be so grumpy," she teased. "I know you. Don't you forget that. You say you won't help, but when it comes down to it? You'll be putting more together and you know it."

He hummed at her again.

"You don't know everything about me," Daryl said.

"I know enough," Carol promised. "I know enough to know that you'll be putting more cribs together, if that's what you get asked to do." Daryl made a spitting sound at her. It was a sound to dismiss the whole thing because he knew that he couldn't argue with her. What she said was true. She laughed at him. "Hey," she said, lowering her voice. He hummed to ask her to continue. "Since we're not sleeping, did you want to—break the mattress in a little more? If you're too tired..."

"If it ain't too fancy," Daryl said.

Carol bit her lip. He was referring, and she knew it, to the small collection of toys and "accessories" that they had. All of which he'd crammed into a drawer in their cell out of the sheer fear that someone would see them. He didn't mind any of them, and for the most part he enjoyed a little experimentation, but he also wasn't _always_ enthusiastic about them.

"No," she assured him. "Just—boring and old-fashioned. Just like me."

"Mmm...my favorite parts of you," Daryl teased. "Come on. Gettin' cold in here anyway."

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"We haven't decided what to do with you because you're just not important," Carol said, passing bundles of food through the bars that would feed the Governor, his companion, and the child that she demanded be locked away because she was too dedicated to the man that was a psychopath and who, given half the chance, Carol was sure, would kill her if he ever thought it would benefit him. "We've got more important things to worry about. Nobody's freezing to death this winter. Nobody's going hungry. There's a lot going on to guarantee that."

"So you'll leave us here, like animals," The Governor asked. "Until you're ready to think about it?"

"I know an alternative that we don't have to think about," Carol said. "If you want that option? You just say the words."

The man glared at her and she did her best not to laugh at him. He was a psychopath or a sociopath or something else entirely. The technical language didn't matter to her in the slightest. He was mad and he was violent, especially when he wasn't getting his way. And, lately, he wasn't getting his way at all. But he was also locked away and there was nothing that he could do about it. He failed to even inspire fear in her anymore because she knew, if he were to gain his freedom somehow, he'd be killed before he had a chance to do much damage. There were too many people there that wanted to kill him, each for their own reasons, and even Carol couldn't guarantee that she wouldn't be the one that pulled the trigger or sunk the blade into his probably-frozen heart.

He must have suspected, too, that Carol wasn't afraid of him because he didn't come close enough to the bars to try to make her feel threatened. Not like he once had.

"I read you entirely wrong, Carol," the Governor said. "I didn't think you were this kind of person. I didn't realize you were so cruel."

Carol hummed.

"I'm not," Carol said. "But I'm also not—a fool. And I don't appreciate people mistreating my family. I'm not—the person that I used to be."

"Maybe I'm not either," the Governor offered.

Carol cast a glance in the direction of Lilly. The woman sat on the cot, her daughter beside her, and kept her eyes on the floor. It was a stance that Carol recognized. It was a stance that she didn't miss feeling compelled to take.

Daryl never made her feel like she should duck her head or avert her eyes in his presence. He didn't get off on having that kind of control over her. He didn't need that kind of control over _any_ woman.

"Maybe you're not," Carol agreed. "And if you're not? That's good for you. The problem is, we just might never know the truth. Someone will bring you your lunch and someone's coming around later to clean the cell."

"Carol," the Governor called, summoning her back before she could take three full steps away from the cell. She turned back and crossed her arms across her chest.

"I'm busy," she said. "I have a lot to do and I don't have time to chat with you."

He laughed to himself. He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head gently.

"There really _is_ something different about you," he said.

"Do you have something worthwhile to say?" Carol asked. "Or are you just wasting my time?"

"What about the baby?" He asked. Carol shook her head at him. "It's my child," the Governor said. "Whether or not Andrea wants it to be, or Michonne wants it to be, or even if _you_ want it to be—that's my child. I deserve to at least know if—if Andrea's doing well."

"Andrea's fine," Carol said. "No thanks to you, but she's doing excellent. The baby is too."

"She hasn't been born yet?" The Governor asked.

"No," Carol said. "I'm sure the whole prison will know when we have a newborn around. Even you."

"But it won't be long?" The Governor asked.

"She'll tell us when it's time," Carol said. "If there's one thing I know about them, it's that babies set their own schedules."

"I want to see Andrea," the Governor said. "I want to talk to her. I want to see the baby."

"You have a better chance of getting ice water in hell," Carol said blankly. She glanced behind the man to where Lilly and Meghan were watching her. "Sorry," she added softly, directing it toward the woman and child. "She doesn't want to see you," Carol said, redirecting her statements to the man standing at the bars. "And—it's a new world. We have new rules here. And one of those rules is that if you try to kill the mother, and the child by default? You lose all your parental rights. It's not your child. You don't have any right to see it."

"If you're not going to let me go," the Governor said, "then when are you going to kill me, Carol? When are you all going to sit down and decide—that you can't keep all of us locked up in a cage any longer? That you can't keep us locked up for cruelty when you're doing exactly the same thing?"

Carol glanced toward Lilly and Meghan again.

"When we kill you," Carol said, " _if_ we kill you, there won't be an "us". There doesn't have to be. Lilly and Meghan will be free to make their own choices to stay or go. Just the same as they've been free to make their own choices to stay in the cell or come out."

"When are you going to kill _me_ , then, Carol?" The Governor asked again, putting emphasis on his words to show his understanding that he was really the only one that they were considering getting rid of permanently.

"Everyone's working right now," Carol said. "But if you're anxious to speed things up, I'm sure I could get someone to take a break. Otherwise? You're just going to have to be patient until we've made a decision."

"What can I do to prove..." he paused and laughed. "What can I do to prove my innocence?" He asked. "To prove I'm a changed man? That I'm—worthy to live among all of you people with your clean hands and your clean _consciences_?"

Carol didn't respond to his dig, but it didn't mean that she missed it.

"I'm not sure there's anything you can do," she said. "But I have to go and my hands dirty...so enjoy your breakfast."


	64. Chapter 64

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl found Carol in the storage room scratching another of the lines in the paint to go with the others that she'd put there. He knew what she'd created, without even having to ask, but it wasn't what she'd created that interested him as much as it was the reason why she'd bothered creating it in the first place.

"Another month, huh?" He asked, letting his words announce his presence.

Carol jumped and she put her hand over her chest as she turned to look at him. Her eyes lost some of their wideness and she laughed to herself.

"You shouldn't do that when I have a knife in my hand," she said.

"Another month?" Daryl asked, not even bothering to tease her about the knife or her false threat.

Carol hummed.

"I'd say it's the last one I have to mark before Andrea has the baby," Carol said.

"What you need a calendar for?" Daryl asked. "Hell—I coulda told you that. Could've told anyone that wanted to know. She looks so heavy right now that she sneezed at breakfast and I half expected the kid to just fall out then. Right there on the floor."

Carol laughed at him. She shook her head gently.

"That's not how it happens," Carol offered.

"I guess I know that too," Daryl said with a laugh. "I've seen enough television in my life to know she's probably gonna bust the eardrums outta every one of our heads before that kid gets here—bad as these walls echo. What I don't get, though, is why you need a calendar."

Carol looked at the calendar and studied her collection of scratch marks. They were relatively few in comparison to the amount of time that Andrea had been incubating the child that would soon be joining them. It had only seemed to recently occur to Carol that they could keep track of the days by scratching out a small mark for each of them. She shrugged at her handiwork.

"I just started it one morning," she said. "And—I guess I just kept going. Seeing them all lined up like that? It reminds me that each day ends and another one starts. When I don't scratch them on the wall? It's easy to lose track of them entirely. Besides—it might be nice to have some idea of how much time passes. Don't you think?"

"Don't matter to me none," Daryl responded honestly.

It really didn't matter to him. A week, a month, or a year, he didn't really care about the time. As long as things kept going on like they were going, he was happy. He would gladly spend the rest of his life like this—and if he spent the rest of his life like this, he probably wouldn't care to know exactly how long that life had lasted. It wouldn't matter anyway. When it was done, it was done.

"Well, it matters to me," Carol said.

"Then you keep carving them lines on the wall," Daryl said. "We'll find you another place when that wall's all filled up." If it made her happy, and she did seem happy for the most part, then he certainly wasn't going to tell her that she couldn't do it. "Tell me which boxes you wanted. I'll carry 'em across to the kitchen."

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Michonne had taken it upon herself to finally go and rouse Hershel from his sleep. Andrea hadn't wanted to bother him. She didn't want to bother anyone. After all, she couldn't be sure that there was anything wrong. She couldn't be sure that there was anything going on. She could, apparently and if she tried hard enough, convince herself that everything she said she felt with one breath was a hallucination of sorts with another. It was nothing more than her overactive imagination. Andrea just couldn't be sure. And Michonne had decided that the only way they were ever going to be sure, was if she went for the old man.

When he'd examined Andrea, he hobbled to the dresser to wash his hands in the bowl of water that Carol, who had seemed to be awake when Michonne left the cell, had brought for him.

"Try to get some rest, Andrea," Hershel said. "As much as you can. You've got a lot of work to do before long and the more intense it gets, the harder it's going to be for you to keep still."

"So she's in labor?" Michonne asked. Andrea's mouth was open in something like shock, and didn't look like she was going to be asking any questions until that passed.

Hershel hummed and nodded.

"Probably has been for a little while," he said. "Still, it's her first baby. Things might not move too quickly. As long as there's progress, we'll wait her out."

Michonne reached and caught Hershel by the arm, trying to let him know that she didn't want half his attention. She wanted his whole attention at the moment. He looked at her hand, and then he looked at her. She thought she saw something akin to humor cross his features.

"When are we going to know if there's enough progress?" Michonne asked.

Now she _knew_ that she saw humor on the old man's features.

"Only time will tell us that, Michonne," Hershel said. He looked at Andrea who still hadn't appeared to thaw entirely from her shock. Then he returned his attention to Michonne. "Right now? We focus on keeping Andrea comfortable and helping her whenever and wherever she needs our help while she does the work that she's got to do. For now? She's dilated, even if it's going slowly, and she certainly seems to be handling it well. Now? We leave it in God's hands. And—if that isn't good enough for you, Michonne? We let nature take its course. You can think about it however you're more comfortable."

Michonne couldn't help but think that she wasn't going to be comfortable at all until the baby was born and she was sure that everything was fine. She felt, at the moment, a little dizzy and was embarrassed to think that, of the two of them, she was already faring worse than Andrea in the whole ordeal.

"What should we do?" Michonne asked. "Or—what should I do?"

"You should try to get some sleep," Hershel said. "Andrea needs to try to get whatever sleep she can. And when she can't sleep?" He stopped speaking to Michonne then and directed his words to Andrea. "You can do what you feel like doing. If you want to stay in here? If this is where you're comfortable? Stay here. You want to move to the cell that Carol fixed for you? Go there. You want to go for a walk? Whatever you feel like doing? It's OK to do it. I'll keep a check on you, but you'll know when you need me." He looked back at Michonne. "Try to rest too. You'll have a newborn keeping you awake before too long."

Hershel hobbled his way around Michonne then and out of the cell. Michonne stood there for a moment just trying to get herself together. They'd known that the baby was coming soon, and theoretically they'd done all they could do to prepare for her arrival, but Michonne hadn't ever let herself get used to the idea as actual fact. It had always seemed like there wouldn't actually be a baby. It had always seemed like something they'd just talk about and prepare for. Now, though, it seemed that the baby was very real and, before long, she'd be even more real for both of them.

"Mich?" Andrea called, breaking Michonne's thoughts for a moment. Michonne looked at her and tried to hide as much of her internal feelings as might be shining through her facial expression. "Come to bed? Just a little while?"

Michonne sucked in a breath and tried to will her pulse to slow down. She nodded her head, shucked off the clothes she'd put on to keep from being entirely indecent when she'd gone to wake Hershel, and she returned to the bed and blew out the lamp. She didn't know if Andrea wanted to be touched, so she didn't put her arm around her, but Andrea addressed her concern a moment later when she reached and, finding Michonne's hand, moved it around to rest over her body. Instinctively, Michonne flattened her palm against Andrea's belly and rubbed her hand back and forth, feeling the movements there that may have been baby or simply muscle, until it seemed that Andrea had drifted off into the best kind of sleep that she could be expected to get at the moment.

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Daryl had to give it to her. For someone who was carrying around an actual human being, Andrea had stamina. He was on his third lap around the prison yard and she was probably on her sixth or seventh. Carol had taken Michonne aside to help her "get ready"—a project that really was designed to get Michonne's mind on something else—and Daryl and a few others were chipping in to walk with Andrea. Tyreese had taken the first couple of laps and passed her off to Daryl. Daryl knew that Abraham was waiting, near the prison entrance, to pick up and take over for him. They figured that as long as they traded off to rest every now and again, each of them was strong enough that, if it was necessary, they could pick her up and get her back to the prison in a hurry.

"Abe's up there," Daryl said. "Gonna trade off with me."

"I don't care," Andrea said, gritting her teeth at him.

Daryl bit his lip to keep from laughing. Normally he might have been offended to be spoken to as sharply as Andrea was speaking to him from time to time, but right now he wasn't taking it personally. He'd figured out, somewhere during the first lap, that she kept moving—even if it was a great deal slower—through her contractions. She couldn't keep a sunny disposition, though, when they were in full swing.

"You wanna stop a bit?" Daryl asked. "Sit down and rest? You been out here for hours."

"I don't want to stop," Andrea said, panting a little. He wasn't sure if it was from exertion or from discomfort.

"Wanna hold onto me or...?" He asked. He hadn't expected her to like that suggestion or to take him up on the offer, but obviously it sounded nice to her because she moved closer to him and grabbed his arm. He stopped their forward progress to rearrange them so that he could feel like, at least if he was responsible for supporting her in some way, he was in a better position to actually do that. "Hurt?" He asked when Andrea didn't immediately start their progress forward again.

"No," she growled. "Not at all."

"Wanna go back to the prison now?" He asked.

"I told you...no," Andrea said.

Daryl bit his lip again to keep from laughing at her. At the rate he was going, he was going to chew a hole in his lip if he didn't stop trying to engage her in conversation. He didn't really feel chatty himself, either, but he figured that the conversation might at least help to keep her mind off things. It would certainly help pass the hours a little, especially since there had been a lot of them and they didn't have a kid yet.

"You sure you're doing this right?" Daryl asked, just as he got Andrea moving again. She stopped them again. The expression on her face suggested that maybe she hadn't really finished the last contraction. She pulled down on him and Daryl braced himself to take more of her weight if that's what she needed. After a moment, she seemed ready to speak to him again.

"What do you mean?" She asked, almost entirely out of breath. "How do you...how can I do it wrong?"

"I'm just saying," Daryl offered, starting their almost crawling progress forward again, "that this ain't exactly how it's supposed to happen. At least—not to me. You ain't had the whole water breaking thing. Not that I've seen. And that's supposed to be like the first thing. The whole like—big river of water. This whole sign that this is really happening."

"It's really happening!" Andrea spat, seeming more than a little offended. "How can you say it isn't?"

"Where's the water?" Daryl asked.

Andrea bared her fangs at him—at least that was Daryl's best description for the expression she gave him.

"If I knew, I'd drown you in it," she growled at him.

Daryl didn't try to hold back his laughter then.

"I'm glad to say you're about to become Abraham's problem," Daryl said. He could see the man already headed toward them. He was giving up on waiting on them, obviously, and was coming to relieve Daryl. They would've made it to him eventually, but it seemed that they weren't making the same kind of progress that they had been making around the prison yard before. Before, they could get a pretty decent distance between Andrea's stops. Now she was barely making three or four steps before she practically doubled over on him again.

In the time it took Abraham to cross the short span of ground, Daryl and Andrea had only moved about two feet and she was already yanking at him again like she was trying to either climb him or wrestle him into the dirt.

"You two look like fucking Siamese twins," Abraham called, coming toward them.

"She's wearing me out," Daryl called back at him. "My back can't take much more of this."

"Sit this dance out then," Abraham said. "I'll take Little Mama."

He walked up to them and stopped just before he reached them. He developed a sudden and strong interest in Daryl's boots from what Daryl could tell.

"You takin' over here or you ain't?" Daryl asked.

Abraham glanced at him and then looked at Andrea.

"Whatever the hell happens right now, happens," Abraham said. "And it don't matter a damn bit. I learned that lesson a long time ago. But—did you piss yourself Little Mama? Or did the baby just pop its little red balloon?"

Daryl glanced down, following Abraham's stare, and saw that there was obviously wetness on the dry dirt beneath Andrea's feet and whatever the moisture was—piss or something else entirely—was running down her legs. She didn't seem able or willing to respond to them either way, though, and Abraham surprised Daryl by swooping in and taking action before Daryl was even able to process everything.

Abraham moved between them and lifted Andrea off her feet before he started back toward the prison, walking as though the woman in his arms wasn't as heavy as Daryl knew her to be.

Daryl didn't know if it was an emergency or not—nothing this day had happened in any way like he'd imagined it might if he were to be an actual witness to labor and delivery—but he double timed his steps back to the prison so that he could get there before Abraham and warn everyone that the man was coming—and they may or may not need to be prepared for anything ranging from changing Andrea's clothes to welcoming another little girl into the prison.


	65. Chapter 65

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"That's it, Andrea," Hershel urged. "Give me another push just like that one."

Michonne didn't know how Carol was faring, since she was the other cheerleader in the cell, but Michonne felt exhausted. She knew that Andrea had to be tired. They were making progress, and it shouldn't be that much longer, but it felt like they'd been at it for days—and that was only the part of the whole thing where Andrea was actively pushing.

Andrea, who had done well the whole time, was starting to reach the end of her stamina, too. Her pushes were less enthusiastic and she was starting to insist that she couldn't do this. The baby just wasn't going to be born. She wasn't cut out for this—and every other insistence that came to mind.

"It's not working," Andrea insisted.

"Oh, it's working," Carol offered. "We can see her head, OK? I can see it. A couple of those really good pushes and she's here."

Andrea shook her head at Carol and, when the next contraction hit, burst into tears when she put her energy into pushing. Michonne fought back the urge to cry herself. She kept looking back and forth between Carol and Hershel to see if either of them would give her some indication of what she should do—and if it really wasn't working like it should be. She'd been there before, but it was different to deliver the child herself and to watch someone else do it. Hershel, though, looked almost happy about things and Carol didn't seem that concerned while she mopped at Andrea's face with a rag every time she dared to let go of her leg.

"Andrea," Michonne offered, "don't cry, OK? You need to focus on pushing. That's all you need to focus on right now. Pushing. Crying isn't helping anyone."

"Actually, Michonne, it is helping," Hershel said with a half-swallowed laugh. "Baby's crowning and she's moving. Andrea's pushing better. Crying looks like just what she needs to do."

Michonne didn't think it was as amusing as Hershel seemed to think it was, and Andrea didn't seem to regard Michonne's opinion on what was good and what wasn't as nearly as important as Hershel's. When she tensed up for the next contraction and put her effort into pushing again, she cried just as much as she had before and didn't seem the slightest bit apologetic for the fact that any of the noises she was producing were deafening in the cell. Or that they felt like they were shredding the inside of Michonne's chest.

"Good girl!" Hershel praised her. "Baby's head is out. If you can do that one more time? Just that strong? She's going to be here."

"I can't," Andrea insisted. It wasn't the first time she'd said it, but she'd kept going even when she said she couldn't, so Michonne ignored the protest.

"You can," Carol offered. "You need to rest, rest. Just breathe if that's what you want to do. Breathe."

Andrea was nodding at Carol and Michonne bit her lip. So far her opinions on the process of giving birth—and granted she wasn't the only one who'd done it, but she _had_ done it—seemed to be of less interest to Andrea than either Carol's or Hershel's.

Of course, maybe that's because they were telling Andrea what she wanted to hear and Michonne was trying to _help_ her. At least, that's what it felt like.

Andrea didn't immediately start pushing again. She did breathe, or rather she panted, and she whined a little before she seemed like she wanted to push—what Michonne would have instructed her to do anyway. But Andrea, being Andrea, had to arrive at wanting to do it herself.

"Carol, can you get me the blanket?" Hershel asked. "Andrea—in just a second? The baby's going to be here. Carol's going to wrap her up because it's cold, OK? And Michonne's going to cut the cord. Then she's coming to you." Andrea's response to Hershel's words was to push again, her energy temporarily renewed by the very real promise of the baby. Michonne felt her relief the moment that the baby came into the world and she heard the crying that followed right after from what sounded like a very capable pair of lungs. "Carol? Can you come with a blanket, please? You need to wrap the baby..."

Michonne heard the difference in his voice and her heartrate kicked up a few notches. If Andrea heard it, she hadn't reacted to the change. She was still recovering her breath and she was content with the idea that—all little steps taken care of and out of the way—she was about to hold her baby.

Michonne saw Carol's facial expression, too, and she heard the light "oh" that escaped Carol's lips before she pressed them tightly together and forced them into a half-smile.

"Michonne?" Hershel asked. "Can you come here? Cut the cord?"

Michonne let go of Andrea's hand and walked the very short distance toward them. Her knees felt like they were encased in concrete and her chest felt every bit as bound. She didn't know what she was going to find, but she feared it wasn't going to be perfection. Hershel prepared the cord for her and instructed her of where she should cut. As soon as she did, Carol flipped back the blanket a little to show Michonne what the problem was.

 _Their "baby girl" was very much a "baby boy"._

While Michonne would have argued, normally, that the baby's sex didn't matter at all, she wasn't sure that was entirely true—and probably that's what had given both Carol and Hershel a moment of pause. Andrea had, psychologically, come to terms with everything by imaging that the baby was a girl. She was as far removed from the Governor as she could be. She would have absolutely nothing in common with the man—not even her biological sex. Her reaction to finding out that her daughter was, in fact, her son, might not be the smoothest reaction that they could hope for.

Michonne reached and took the baby from Carol. Hershel was already up from his chair and balanced on his crutches. He was looking at Michonne like he wanted her to tell him how they should all proceed from here.

"It's too cold in here—that blanket isn't thick enough," Michonne said, trying to come up with something off the top of her head. "Come with me? Just—help me figure out what we can put—what we can put on the baby?"

Michonne felt like a fish out of the water. She couldn't breathe and she didn't know what she was doing. She felt like she needed to step away from Andrea for a moment, though, and she felt like she needed help to figure this out. Carol and Hershel weren't slow to follow her lead, either. Neither of them had much of a choice, though, because she'd already taken the baby was in the corridor outside of the cell before they could react.

"Michonne," Hershel said, keeping his voice low, "I don't think it's a good idea to just take Andrea's baby away."

"I'm not," Michonne said, holding the tiny boy against her chest. "I'm just—figuring this out."

From inside the cell, though, she could hear Andrea's voice. For as calm as she had been, Andrea wasn't calm any longer. She was calling out to them, her voice growing a little higher pitched with each repetition of their names and her string of questions, that she wanted to know what was wrong. She wanted her baby.

Michonne knew that Andrea had just jumped to the worst possible conclusion—and she couldn't blame her but she hadn't been thinking too clearly in the cell—and she thought they were hiding something horrible from her. Maybe even something more horrible than the fact that the baby girl was actually a baby boy.

Maybe it would work in their favor.

"Andrea? It's OK. We're coming right back," Carol called quickly. "We're bringing the baby. Everything's fine."

"I didn't mean to do this," Michonne said. "I didn't mean to upset her. I just—don't know how she's going to react."

"None of us do," Hershel said. "But I know how she's reacting right now. We'll just have to count on mother's instinct. She'll hold him and—love him."

"And if she has a problem, we'll deal with it, right?" Michonne asked, searching out reassurance from either of her companions. She didn't have time to get it, though.

"What's the problem?" Andrea asked. She stood, holding on to one of the bars of the cell.

"Andrea—let's go back and lie down," Hershel said. "You've still got to deliver the afterbirth—if that's not already out of the way. And I'm sorry but you do need a few stitches. I don't want you bleeding any more than what we can't control. There's nothing wrong."

Carol pushed Andrea back toward the bed, but she held strong to her position.

"What's wrong? I want to hold her..." Andrea said.

Michonne took the baby and walked around Andrea, essentially using the child to lure Andrea back to the bed. Andrea followed.

"It's my fault," Michonne said quickly. "Andrea there's nothing wrong. I wasn't—I just wasn't thinking. And I was supposed to hand the baby to you and I didn't. Lie down. Hold the baby and let Hershel look after you, OK?"

Andrea settled back down and arranged herself once more. She held her arms out to Michonne. Michonne passed her the baby and immediately Andrea cuddled the infant against her chest and nuzzled at his head.

"I can clean the baby up in here," Carol offered. "With you? You can help me get clothes on—you can help me."

"You scared me," Andrea said, clearly to Michonne more than to anyone else. She was ignoring Carol and Hershel both, even though they were both demanding her attention in different ways.

"I'm sorry," Michonne said, and she meant it. "I'm sorry. I should've thought about it. It would've terrified me too if I were you. And I'm sorry."

Andrea looked at Michonne, red-eyed.

"It's OK, Mich," Andrea offered. "She's OK?"

"The baby looks perfect," Hershel offered, clearing his throat. "And as soon as we're done here? You're going to be perfect too. Looks like you've already got your sea legs back and that's a great sign. Still—a little rest would be a good idea. Michonne? Did you—want to talk to Andrea?"

Michonne eased down on the side of the bed, barely balancing there, to sit beside Andrea.

"What we were worried about," Michonne said, quickly holding up her hand to let Andrea know that she shouldn't panic, "and it isn't even a big thing, is that the baby? Well..." To ease what she had to say, Michonne moved her hands to touch the baby. Andrea's breathing had picked up—clearly showing she was preparing for the worst even though Michonne had told her not worry—and Michonne wished she could be calm for this. It might help things. Michonne pulled back the blanket to display a little of the hidden parts of the baby. " _She_ turned out to be a _he_."

The baby disliked everything about his current situation and started crying, so Michonne covered him once more. Andrea seemed frozen for a second and Michonne moved Andrea's arms so that she was cuddling the crying infant against her chest again.

"He's beautiful, Andrea," Hershel offered.

"Ten fingers and ten toes," Carol offered. "I counted them up quickly. You can count them too. He's perfect. You can start nursing whenever you're both ready. We can help you get him latched? I think you'll enjoy it. You both will. It's good for bonding."

Michonne understood what both of them were doing and she appreciated it. She thought she understood, too, the expression on Andrea's face. It was going to have to sink in—and they had no way of knowing, not until she gave voice to it, what else was going on in her mind at the moment. She didn't even seem to notice or care when Hershel warned her that the stitches he was proceeding with might be a little uncomfortable.

"He's healthy," Michonne said, taking one of Andrea's hands in case she might want the comfort of holding Michonne's hand. "That's what matters, OK? He's healthy and he's here. And—you're going to relax for a couple of days and spend— _lots_ of time with him. Just being mommy or mama...or whatever he's going to call you. And he's going to be a wonderful baby and an amazing little boy. He looks like you—you know? He's got your nose. And—and your eyes."

Andrea nodded her head at Michonne. She didn't look away from the baby that, having settled again, looked like he might be halfway asleep.

"He's perfect," Andrea offered. Michonne nodded at her. She wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question.

"You want to count his fingers and toes?" Michonne asked with a laugh. "I did. When—when my babies were born? I counted them about ten times a piece. Make sure they're all there."

Andrea shook her head.

"He needs a bath," Andrea said. "He needs to be clean and he needs clothes. It's cold, Michonne."

Andrea shivered as though she were illustrating her point.

"We'll bring some water in here," Michonne said. "We'll wipe him down and clean him up. Dress him."

Andrea shook her head.

"There's a heater in the kitchen area," Andrea said. "It'll be warmer in there. You take him. You clean him up."

Michonne glanced at Carol who was standing to the side and wearing the fakest smile she could manage to plaster on her features at the moment. Carol nodded at Michonne.

"We'll clean him up," she offered. "Daryl can get Andrea to the cell and get her settled. She can rest, and you can bring him to her when he's clean and ready to nurse."

Andrea nodded her agreement of the suggestion and passed Michonne the baby. Michonne took him and gently rocked him when he started to fuss at the transition. She leaned and kissed Andrea's cheek and Andrea turned her face to quickly peck at Michonne's lips. As they parted, she offered Michonne a strained smile.

"We'll clean him up and I'll bring him to you in the cell," Michonne said. "Our cell. You can get settled in with him."

Andrea nodded her head.

"OK," she said.

"You just rest and—don't worry about anything," Michonne said. "Everything's fine. It's perfect."

Andrea nodded again and repeated the soft "OK" that she'd offered Michonne before. Michonne got to her feet and started to follow Carol out of the cell. She glanced at Hershel, pleading to him with her eyes, even if she didn't know what she wanted from the old man.

"I'll stay with her," Hershel offered. "Until you bring him back."


	66. Chapter 66

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"OK," Michonne said, drawing the word out as she came into the cell with the baby bundled up in her arms. "It looks like he's just a little over six pounds, if the scales we found are reliable at all. But he feels about like he's six pounds. He's clean and—to be honest—smells _wonderful_. He's warm and snuggly. But—I bet he's missing Mama and he'd like to get his first try at having a little snack."

Andrea was in the bed and she looked fairly relaxed. She'd been cleaned up and she was changed. The bed, Michonne knew, had been made up fresh for her. Carol had swapped their sheets out for some clean ones and taken their others to be washed while Andrea had still been laboring and walking laps around the prison yard. Hershel sat on the side of the bed beside Andrea, holding her hand, even though the two of them weren't speaking. Andrea rearranged herself a little and looked at Michonne when she came in.

"I gave her a little something," Hershel said, "just to take the edge off of everything. It shouldn't really affect anything. It'll just help her relax a little and feel better for the evening." Michonne thanked him and offered an arm when he started to get to his feet, shifting the baby to the crook of one of her arms, but Hershel shook his head to refuse her assistance and successfully got off the bed and onto his crutches. "These beds are too soft," he said with a laugh, "for an old man like me. Feed your baby, Andrea. I'll check on you in the morning if you don't need me before then."

Andrea thanked him then, and Hershel left them alone in the cell.

Michonne stood by the bed.

"How are you feeling?" She asked Andrea.

Andrea shrugged her shoulders gently.

"Fine?" She said. "Tired."

Michonne nodded at her.

"That's to be expected," Michonne said. "You want to hold him?" Andrea offered her arms to Michonne and Michonne made the transfer with the baby. As soon as he was in Andrea's arms, Andrea sunk back a little into the pillow and hugged him against her. Michonne had swaddled him tightly, to give him the best feeling of security that she could, but Andrea immediately started to undo her careful wrapping. "What are you doing?" Michonne asked. "He'll get cold if you unwrap him. It's freezing in here. It's too cold for him to be out of the blanket for long."

Andrea looked at her and frowned. She abandoned whatever she was doing and wrapped him back up, though not as tightly as Michonne had bundled the infant. She sat there for a moment and stared across the bed in the direction of the lump that her feet made under the blanket. The baby stirred a little. He woke, but he didn't cry. Instead he simply looked concerned about his situation—an expression that seemed to be his most common one so far.

Michonne sat on the edge of the bed.

"He's a good baby," Michonne said. "He hardly fussed at all while we wiped him down. Do you want to try to feed him?" Michonne asked. "I could help you get him to latch. Formula is pretty hard to come by. He's going to need to get as much from you as he can. Your milk won't come all the way in for a couple of days, but he can get some nutrition from what you're producing now."

Andrea nodded and sat up a little. With one hand, she struggled with the buttons on the button down shirt that she was wearing. It didn't look like any shirt that Michonne had known her to own, and she wondered if Hershel had given it to her to make nursing easier for the moment.

"You want me to hold him?" Michonne asked. "Or you want me to help you with the buttons?"

"Buttons," Andrea said, somewhat puffing her chest in Michonne's direction. Michonne leaned and quickly unbuttoned the row of buttons so that Andrea could bare her chest to the baby. She tried to turn him to introduce him to her breast, but he didn't immediately seem to know what was expected of him.

"Change his angle a little," Michonne instructed. She moved her hands against the boy and helped Andrea get him situated. "See? He's looking for it. It's instinct. Just like yours is to make the milk, his is to look for it." After a moment of trying to help him get just the right position, the baby found what he was looking for and Andrea relaxed back, watching him eat. "You want to put the blanket over him? Pull it up a little? Are you cold?"

Andrea sighed.

"Mich—at what point do I get to...I don't know," Andrea said.

"What's wrong?" Michonne asked. "What do you want to do?"

"I want to hold him!" Andrea said, a little more loudly than planned. The baby lost his latch in shock over the noise and whimpered about it. Andrea didn't miss a beat, though, in reaching down and rubbing his cheek, directing him back to what he must have feared he'd never recover. "I want to hold him," Andrea said, this time quietly. "I want to— _look_ at him. I want..."

Michonne's stomach twisted a little. All at once, she thought she understood. She nodded at Andrea.

"I took over?" She asked.

"Little bit, Mich," Andrea said. "I think—I held him for...for just a few minutes. And even then..."

"I was right there," Michonne offered. Andrea nodded at her. "I wanted you to hold him. I wanted—us to give him his bath in the cell with you."

"It's cold in the cells, Michonne," Andrea said. "Too cold. He's too—he's too little to be wet in that kind of cold. I just want to—hold him. I want to—I want to look at him. He probably looks so confused because he doesn't even know who I am."

Michonne laughed to herself.

"Babies don't imprint on the first woman that holds them," Michonne said. "Not human ones, at least. He knows who you are. He probably looks confused because it's been a very busy day for him. Just this morning he woke up at home—in the only home he's ever known—and he got evicted from that home just in time to come into a lot of activity here." Andrea sighed and shifted around a little like she was uncomfortable. Michonne wasn't sure if it was physical discomfort or another kind entirely. "What's wrong, Andrea?"

Andrea shook her head gently.

"I just can't shake the feeling," Andrea said. Michonne raised her eyebrows at Andrea in question so she wouldn't have to put words to it. Andrea seemed to understand that she was asking her to explain herself. "The way we talked about it all happening was—it was always the same. Carol would wrap him up, you would cut the cord, and then you'd bring him to me. Even if I thought _he_ would be _she_ , it was the same thing every time we talked about it. It was going to be some— _magical_ moment. Instead—Mich, I've never been so scared. And I've been terrified before—but this was different. Even when you brought him back I thought you were preparing me for something—something _horrible_. Some—something like there's only a few hours or...I just can't shake that feeling. I can't get rid of it."

Michonne's stomach dropped and her chest tightened. She fought to suck in a breath and nodded at Andrea.

"I still remember when Angie was born," Michonne said. "My first? I still remember the moment they handed her to me and I was so happy to see her. It felt like I'd been pregnant forever. But there she was. And—I guess I took that away from you." She shook her head at Andrea. "And I'm sorry, but—I don't know how to get that back."

Andrea laughed quietly and shook her head. Michonne didn't miss, though, the tear that ran down her cheek.

"You don't, Mich," Andrea said. "You can't. You don't get time back. We know that. We all do."

Michonne nodded her head and cleared her throat to try to keep her voice from coming out without any of the gravelly qualities she feared it might have at the moment. The last thing she wanted, right then, was Andrea trying to comfort her.

"Hold him," Michonne said. "Nurse him. As much as he wants."

She started to leave the cell and Andrea called her back, softly.

"Where are you going?" Andrea asked.

"I have a couple of things I need to do," Michonne said. "Before we go to sleep. I'll be back. If you need anything—Hershel or Carol will hear you if you call. I'll be back."

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When Daryl came out to smoke a cigarette, he couldn't immediately identify the person that was wandering the yard. When he went to investigate, though, it didn't take him very long to figure out that it was Michonne. Even from a distance, there was something distinct about her gait and the way that her body moved. The darkness, even, didn't make it too difficult to distinguish her from anyone else.

"What'cha doin' out here?" Daryl called as he walked up behind her. "Figured you'd be inside with the kid." He laughed quietly. "Got Abraham watching you-know-who. Only one that can keep him from making too much noise. I guess he heard everything that was going on when the kid was born. Asking everything about it. We ain't seen it yet, neither, you know. Heard it's a boy. Y'all keepin' him in that cell until he's fully growed?"

Michonne stopped her forward progress.

"I single handedly ruined one of the most important moments in Andrea's life," Michonne said. "On one of the most important days of her life. I needed a little air."

"Hmmm," Daryl growled. "What the hell could you do that was so damn bad?" He asked.

Michonne turned around, but he couldn't see her face too clearly in the failing light.

"The first moment that a mother spends with her baby should be the happiest moment of her life," Michonne said. "At least—it should be right up there with the happiest moments. She should've been _introduced_ to him. She should've had the chance to—make up her own mind how she felt about things. I didn't let her make up her own mind, Daryl. I don't think—I ever let her make up her own mind."

"Pretty damn deep shit," Daryl commented. "You sort all that out for yourself out here? Because—if you did? I oughta walk this yard more often."

"I scared her," Michonne said. "And then? I scared her a little more to make sure that she was as scared as she could possibly be." Michonne sighed loudly. "I haven't seen her smile since he was born—I took away that first smile over being a mother."

Daryl sucked his teeth. He wasn't good with emotion. It wasn't that he was terrified of it, or even that it disgusted him, he just wasn't good with it. He didn't know how to handle it. He didn't know what to say to someone who was feeling a lot of feelings that he usually tried to swallow down instead of allowing free reign.

And it seemed that he'd tripped and fallen right into a veritable lake of emotions right now.

"Hell," he said. "You want me to kick you? Because—I don't know how the hell to make you feel any worse if I don't."

Michonne laughed, but it was half-hearted at best.

"It's OK, Daryl," Michonne said. "I'm not asking you to make me feel better. And—I'm not asking you to make things better."

 _Make things better_.

That happened to be the one part of emotional language that Daryl understood and felt that he spoke somewhat fluently. If something was wrong, he didn't know how to talk about how he felt about it. He found it difficult to respond—even if he had no problem listening—to what someone else said _they_ felt about it. But what he did know, was that he could usually come up with something to try to make them feel better. He could usually come up with a way to try to fix things—or at least show that, if it were possible, he _would_ fix them.

Carol had a small collection of items that Daryl knew she kept in a box under the bed—and all of those items were his at-least-a-little-bit-failed attempts at making things better.

Maybe they didn't fix things entirely, but he knew they at least helped.

"Maybe it ain't me that's gotta make things better," Daryl said. "Maybe— _you_ oughta make things better instead of spending your night out here keeping the Walkers company."

"You can't make some things better, Daryl," Michonne said. "You can't turn back time."

Daryl chuckled.

"Didn't say you could," Daryl said. "But—hell—you took it away, give it back."

"If it was candy, I could," Michonne said.

"Smartass," Daryl responded. "See if I try to help your ass again. I don't need this shit. I came out to smoke a cigarette, not to hide from anyone."

Michonne sighed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You're right. You didn't deserve that either. But—Daryl, there isn't any way to _undo_ this. I did all the wrong things. I thought I was doing the right thing. Mostly I wasn't thinking. But—I did it all wrong. I messed up what should have been a happy moment. I took that away."

"So give it back," Daryl offered again.

Michonne laughed, this time there was a hint of annoyance behind it.

"How, Daryl?" Michonne asked. "How exactly do you give a happy moment back?"

"Do it again," Daryl said.

"Babies aren't born twice," Michonne pointed out.

"I'm so damn glad I got your ass around to point out all the shit I just don't know, Michonne," Daryl said. "I'm not a fuckin' idiot." She mumbled an apology in Daryl's direction. "Do it again," Daryl said. "Whatever you fucked up? Go back—do it again. Maybe you can't do the whole damn thing again, but you can do _some_ of it again. Do it right. Do it like you woulda wanted to do it if you'da known you were gonna be wandering around out here tonight."

"It doesn't work that way," Michonne said.

"Maybe it ain't the doing that matters," Daryl said. "Not half as much as—what the hell you're trying to do."

"You're the relationship guru?" Michonne asked.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Carol ain't mad at my ass," Daryl pointed out. "At least not tonight. And I'm out here because I wanna be—not feeling sore on myself at all. So—I guess that makes me _something_. And it's a good bit more than you right now."


	67. Chapter 67

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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When Michonne returned to the cell, Andrea was in almost exactly the same position that Michonne had left her in earlier. The only difference was that her eyes were closed and she'd pulled the blanket back up to ward off the chill on her body. Michonne might have sent everyone back to their respective cells and called the whole thing off, but Andrea opened her eyes when she heard the footsteps in the corridor and her expression made it clear that she hadn't actually slept.

And Michonne felt, if they didn't do this now, the window—if it even existed—would be closed entirely.

Carol and Hershel both had been more than happy to help her when Michonne had explained to them that Andrea's unhappiness, or at the very least lack of peace, seemed to be much less owing to the sex of her baby than it was to a feeling that something wasn't quite right—and maybe even to a feeling that she hadn't been properly introduced to her son or to the role that she would have in his life. They'd understood that feelings, though not always rational, were delicate things and they were important. Indulging them just a little, especially while life afforded them such luxury, wasn't the worst way that they could spend a little of their time. Especially not if it meant helping Andrea transition a little more smoothly into motherhood—a role in which Michonne was sure she'd excel.

Michonne stayed with Hershel just out of Andrea's line of vision to watch everything while Carol slipped past her and into the cell, just as she'd been more or less directed to do. She walked directly to Andrea and started to adjust the blankets around her, for a moment looking more like Andrea's possible mother than her friend.

"Does he have a name yet?" Carol asked.

"No," Andrea said. "I haven't even thought about it. I haven't talked to Michonne."

"You've got plenty of time," Carol said. "Really. He won't notice if he goes a little while without a name. Has he tried to nurse?"

"A little," Andrea said. "He fell asleep."

"Keep letting him try," Carol said. "As much as he wants. As long as he wants. It'll help later."

She moved the chair in the cell so that it could be sat in instead of simply used for storage and Andrea watched her scurrying around doing a million little things at once. Andrea didn't bother her, though, because Carol was one of those people who was always _busy_ , so seeing her busy didn't raise any concern for anyone. Andrea only shifted around a little, sitting up a little straighter in the bed, when Carol called to Hershel that he could come into the cell. He hobbled past Michonne, then, and went directly to the chair that Carol had prepared for him to use.

"Is something wrong?" Andrea asked.

"Nothing's wrong," Hershel said, almost at exactly the same moment that Carol said it.

It was clear to Michonne that Andrea was tired and her nerves were pretty much shot at the moment. Luckily, it was clear to Carol and Hershel as well. They knew to tread easily. Michonne, of course, had requested that of them before she'd even brought them to the cell, but they both seemed to already know it. Carol, especially, seemed sympathetic to the situation.

"Can I see him?" Carol asked, holding her arms out for the baby but not immediately diving in to take him. "Just for a minute?" Andrea let her take the sleeping infant and Carol added "nothing's wrong" as an afterthought. "Have you changed him since we washed him?"

"He hasn't—been here very long," Andrea said. "He hasn't—I didn't think he needed to be changed. I don't know."

"I'm sure he's fine," Carol assured her. "It wouldn't hurt to change him anyway, even if he didn't need it. Where's that really soft blanket you had?" Carol asked. "The pink one with the rabbits? The really fluffy one?"

Andrea gestured toward a pile of items that were in the corner of the cell. Carol took the baby and walked over, finding what she was looking for, and then she brought it to Hershel. Quickly and quietly, she worked the baby out of the pajamas that they'd dressed him in, tossed them to the side, and clucked at him when he started to fuss at the inconvenience of being woken. When she passed him to Hershel, Hershel wrapped him in the blanket and took the stethoscope he was carrying from around his neck. Balancing the baby in his arms, he listened to his chest and teased the infant about the whimpering threats he was making to launch into a cry. Michonne stepped into the cell then and waited while Hershel finished his quick examination.

"His heart sounds good," Hershel said. "His lungs are clear. Andrea—as far as I can tell? He's a _perfect_ little boy. It's a lot more than I might've hoped for when I first realized he was on his way. Michonne?"

Michonne walked over to Hershel and accepted the baby. He fussed at her, too, and his threats to cry intensified a little. She couldn't help but smile at him. These were the greatest inconveniences of his short life and, for at least a while, Michonne hoped they were the greatest ones that he had to deal with. She brought him back to the bed, still wrapped in the warm and fuzzy blanket, and swallowed. Andrea was looking at her, mouth slightly open and brows furrowed.

"We took this away from you," Michonne said. "I took it away from you. And—I can't give it back. Not really. But—I can give you the best chance at doing it again that—that I have to offer." She looked at the baby and bobbed him gently in her arms as he reached the point that he'd been working up to and finally broke down into the cry that protested everything that had ever, at least within the span of his memory, happened to him. "Don't cry," she told him. "We've got someone here who—who is going to do everything she can to make sure that—you don't have to." She looked back at Andrea. "Andrea? Congratulations. He's perfect—and you're going to be a _wonderful_ mother."

She passed Andrea the baby and it didn't take Andrea more than a couple of seconds to soothe the cries back to the point of being simply a sour expression that would fade in a moment. Michonne went to the basket that was on top of their tiny little nightstand and picked up two of the warm pairs of pajamas that they had. She gathered up a diaper, too, and picked up the pair of discarded pajamas that Carol had taken off the baby boy. She brought them all to Andrea.

"You need to change his diaper," Michonne said. "And—you should pick what he's going to wear tonight. At least until something happens and we have to change him again. But first? You should—look at him. Check him over. For yourself. He's warm enough, with your body heat and that blanket, that he can stand a quick checking over before you dress him for bed."

Andrea shook her head gently at Michonne.

"Why?" She asked.

"Because it's instinct," Michonne said. "It's what we do. And—you didn't get to do that. So you need to do it. Mothers need to do it, and you do too."

"I believe it's getting late," Hershel said. "And I'm a little peckish. Carol? Join me for a late night snack before bed?"

Whether or not the two of them would eat anything—or even if they were going to bed at this hour—Carol used Hershel's invitation as an excuse to get them both out of the cell. They wished Andrea and Michonne both a good night and Michonne offered a quick "thank you" to both of them that they only acknowledged with smiles and nods.

Andrea was still staring at Michonne with her brows furrowed and Michonne sat down on the side of the bed. She sighed and shook her head.

"Damn you," she said, laughing to herself. "Really. You were supposed—you were supposed to smile. You were supposed to be happy. And you're still not happy."

Andrea opened her mouth to Michonne a few times, but she didn't look any less concerned.

"I'm not unhappy," Andrea said. "I just don't...understand."

"I just wanted to give you back what I took from you," Michonne said. "I wanted you to get the whole experience. He's healthy. You're healthy. Congratulations. Enjoy those first precious moments of meeting and getting to know him. Take a moment—to just not _worry_. Take a moment to just be _happy_. When he was born? Your hormones were probably primed for you to react dramatically one way or another. I made you react badly. I wanted you to have a chance to feel that rush of _pure joy_. And this was the best I could do to recreate it. But, in reality? Your hormones have probably swung again." She shook her head at Andrea. "I just wanted to make it better."

Andrea shook her head at her, but her expression softened a little.

"Mich, I didn't expect you to make anything better," Andrea said. "I just—wanted you to know how I was feeling."

"And I don't want you to feel that way," Michonne said. "So I want to make it better. Which one of these pajamas do you like best? What do you want to put on him for the night?"

Andrea glanced at the baby in her arms that had decided, as long as they weren't moving him around anymore, to go back to sleep. She shrugged at Michonne.

"It doesn't matter," she said.

"You're right," Michonne agreed. "It doesn't matter. Not at all. None of this matters. Not next to Walkers and keeping the prison warm enough and having enough food. But—it's like Carol tells us about the laundry all the time. The little things aren't that important, but the moment we decide they don't matter, the big things won't matter either because we're not living. Tonight? The little things matter. What matters, right now, is that _you_ get to be a mother for the _first time_. For your first night. And you get to—do all the little, not important things, that you can. I knew women who spent weeks figuring out what their baby should wear home. I was one of them. It had to be _perfect_. You don't even get that. I'm just asking you—ducks, dots, or bears? What do you want to see him wearing while he's sleeping tonight?"

Michonne got, finally, the first hint of a smile to cross Andrea's lips. It wasn't a full smile, and maybe it wasn't even half of one, but it was the first indication that a smile might be in there somewhere.

"I like the ducks," Andrea said.

"Ducks it is," Michonne said, putting the outfit within Andrea's reach. "Can you change the diaper? Or you need help? Carol had to show me how to do it. I never used cloth diapers."

Andrea shifted the baby and rested him on her legs. He jumped, startled by the change, but didn't cry or even fully wake. He just tensed his limbs in quiet protest.

"I don't want him to freeze," Andrea said.

Michonne laughed.

"He won't freeze," she promised Andrea. "And even if he gets a little cold? He'll just enjoy being warmed up more when you get him in his pajamas and pick him back up."

Michonne sat and watched Andrea as she carefully unwrapped the baby. She studied the cloth diaper that he was wearing and then she carefully removed it and reached for a rag that was on the nightstand. A bowl of water had been there for a while, brought in for anything they might need to clean up that resulted from having both a newborn and a new mother in one cell, and Andrea dipped the corner of the rag in the bowl and squeezed it out. She wiped the baby with it and he whined his dislike again, but he wasn't truly dedicated to the cry. The day had taken too much out of him, it seemed, for him to be bothered enough to fully fuss. Andrea replaced the old diaper with the clean one, which he probably didn't really need yet, following what she'd learned just from studying the first diaper. Michonne passed her the chosen pajamas and Andrea carefully dressed the baby in them, stalling just a moment to rub tiny toes between her fingers that the baby tried to pull away from her by bending his knees and rolling himself into the best ball that he could. Andrea laughed quietly.

"I think his feet are ticklish," she said, tucking them into the feet of the pajamas.

"Yours are too," Michonne pointed out, though Andrea already knew that and, for just a second, seemed to be ignoring her entirely.

Andrea scooped the baby up, blanket and all, and brought him back against her chest, taking just a moment to kiss his forehead before she settled him down. Michonne thought that, though she wasn't smiling quite the way that Michonne imagined her to be, she did at least look to be a little more at peace than she had been. She looked a little more satisfied. Maybe it was what they had done to relieve the tension that had brought it about—or maybe it was just having the opportunity herself to study the little boy without guilt or fear of some kind of reprimand. As soon as he was snuggled in, the moment when he should have been the happiest, he launched back into the loud and ringing cry that echoed in the cell and Andrea shushed him, quickly moving aside the shirt she'd never bothered to button to offer him her breast.

"Other side," Michonne said quickly, before Andrea could get him to latch.

"What?" Andrea asked.

"Other side," Michonne said. "Turn him around. Take turns. One side, then the other. That way you won't have uneven production in either breast. You fed him on that side. Try the other side."

Andrea turned the baby around and Michonne resisted the urge to help her get him latched. He seemed to have some interest, and she was trying, so Michonne waited them out. Eventually, they worked it out and Andrea got him into just the right position so that he could nurse. And Michonne, at that moment, was glad that she hadn't offered to help because the look of satisfaction, and maybe a little pride, that was on Andrea's face wouldn't have been there if Michonne had interfered in the process.

She would have her time, and there would be plenty of it in the days to come, to step in and do as much as she wanted—and possibly could—to help Andrea and to care for the baby, but right now it was important that Andrea get to do what _she_ could.

The baby was brand new to the world. Andrea was brand new to motherhood. But the experiences were as old as time.

"He looks good," Michonne said. "He looks satisfied." Andrea offered her a soft smile and dropped her eyes back to watch the baby feeding, fighting between his desire to sleep and his desire to suck. "How are you?" Michonne asked.

"I'm fine, Michonne," Andrea assured her.

"Happy?" Michonne asked.

Andrea laughed to herself, but this time the smile that was left behind was sincere and warm. She nodded her head gently.

"Very," she said. "Thank you. How are you?"

Michonne sucked in a breath and considered the cell a moment. Before she crawled into bed for the night she'd go for drinking water for Andrea to have during the night. She'd bring her a snack because, though she knew that Hershel had seen to her eating something while they'd bathed the baby, she could probably still stand to have a little something more on her stomach. She'd move the pack and play into the cell and wedge it tight against the bed—since that was the only way it was even going to fit into the space—in case Andrea wanted to put the baby down at all during the night. Of course, Michonne wasn't going to pressure her either way—it was only the first night. She'd bring in a few clean diapers that they'd almost surely need, and she'd bring in some of the towels that Carol had gathered together for their various possible needs. When she'd run through her checklist of things to do, she'd settle in for the night and probably spend the rest of it sleeping in short shifts in between their waking with the newborn.

It was, at the same time, a life that she thought she left behind a long time ago and a new life entirely.

"I'm very happy," Michonne said. "I'm—very, very happy. Feed him. I've got a couple of things to do before bed."

Michonne started to leave and Andrea called her back, just as she reached the cell door, with a soft declaration of her nickname that came out like a request. Michonne hummed at her.

"Sit with me a minute first?" Andrea asked. She patted the bed beside her with her hand, indicating that she wanted Michonne to snuggle with her, even if she wasn't saying it outright. "Sit with us? Just for a minute?"

It was Michonne's turn to smile. She nodded at Andrea and returned to the bed.

"I think—I'd like that," Michonne said. "Just for a minute."

She crawled onto the bed, trying to be careful not to bounce Andrea and the baby around too much, and she settled next to Andrea with her back against the pillows. She put an arm around Andrea's shoulder and Andrea leaned into her, resting against her while she let the baby get what he could of whatever kind of meal she had to offer him.

"He's beautiful," Michonne offered. "He really is."

"He is," Andrea agreed. "Mich?" Michonne hummed in response to Andrea. "I love you."

Michonne swallowed and moved to snuggle into Andrea a little more. All the other tasks could wait, at least for a minute.

"I love you too," Michonne promised.


	68. Chapter 68

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol was almost always up before everyone else. She knew what the quiet hours were like in the prison—the hours when everyone was asleep or trying to quietly exist in the twilight world before it seemed officially acceptable to be awake.

This morning Carol had been up far too early, however, and she wasn't sure that she'd actually slept at all. She wasn't sure that anyone had slept. She'd since returned to the bed and snuggled in beside Daryl again, but she still wasn't sleeping. Andrea and Michonne had a newborn who didn't seem quite ready to understand the difference between day and night. His cries, when they rang out, were quieted as quickly as the women could manage, but they still echoed through the prison like an alarm. Judith, hearing the baby's cries, seemed to think that it was best for her to respond in kind. If he was crying, after all, there must be something that she should cry about.

But the small children, honestly, weren't what was causing the most noise. In fact, they might not have been disturbed as often as they were if it weren't for the man who had, apparently, finally broken and taken leave of his senses entirely.

"You can't do this!" The Governor yelled down, his voice louder than it ever was. "You can't do this! We're not animals! You can't keep me locked up! That's my child! I have a basic human right to see my own child!"

There were some slight variations on his screaming, but the content of them remained pretty much the same throughout the night. He'd heard the baby and he knew that it was present now in the world. That knowledge had seemed to push him over whatever edge he'd been teetering on. He didn't think it was fair that they had kept him locked up, he declared his innocence and his constant abiding by their rules, and he had a basic human right to see the child that he'd helped to create.

Nothing was shutting him up. Not even Abraham's threats or the yells from other members of the prison family that were desperate for some kind of sleep.

"Son of a fuckin' bitch!" Daryl growled, rising out of the bed like a grumpy bear coming out of hibernation. He threw back the blanket and scrambled over Carol and out of the bed. He rushed toward the cell door and hung halfway out of it and into the corridor. "Shut the fuck up or I'm comin' up there to shut you up my own damn self! Ain't no damn body gonna stop my ass!"

"Daryl," Carol called to him, pulling the blanket back up to cover herself, "come back to bed. He'll settle down."

"Fuck he will," Daryl growled. "He ain't shut up the whole damn night. Can't nobody get no sleep around here with all the damn noise."

"The babies can't help it," Carol said. "They're just babies. Any baby is going to cry sometimes."

"Weren't the damn kids I was talking about," Daryl said. He came back to the bed and sat on it, scrubbing at his face. The sour expression there matched everything other indication of his current mood. "I don't give a damn if the kids cry. It's what they do. We're in the prison and they cry as much as they want—won't call up no Walkers with as secure as Michonne made them fences. It's his damn noisy ass I can't stand."

The Governor, who had gone quiet for only a moment, went back to his yelling. Tyreese, from his cell, barked out his own complaints about the noise and someone, somewhere, banged on something like the loud noise might startle the man into silence.

Carol groaned and hugged the nice pillow that Glenn had brought for her.

"I didn't sleep last night either," she said. "And I feel—like I'm going to die if I don't sleep."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"You and me both," he said. "Hell—if you put all the sleep everybody in the whole damn prison got together last night, you probably wouldn't have a whole damn hour." Another wave of the Governor's complaints rang out and Daryl popped up and onto his feet again. "That's it," Daryl said. "I'm going up there and I'm going to shoot him in the damn head."

"Go ahead," Carol offered. "If I wasn't so tired, I'd load the gun for you myself."

"Fuck," Daryl spat. "If it wouldn't cause some kinda damn—uproar." He returned to sit on the side of the bed again.

"Something's got to happen," Carol said, rolling over onto her back and abandoning her pillow for a moment. "That's obvious. He can't live in the cell forever and _we_ can't live with him in the cell until he dies. We have to do _something_ about the Governor. If we don't kill him, then we've got to let him loose. This can't go on forever."

"Which way you leaning?" Daryl asked.

"What?" Carol asked.

"Which way you leaning?" Daryl asked again. "The killing him or the letting him loose?" When Carol didn't immediately respond to him, Daryl shook his head at her. "I ain't gonna think no less of you, no matter what you say."

"I hate to say it," Carol admitted, "but if I had to pull the trigger? I'd do it. For Andrea. For the baby. For— _all_ of us. If we let him loose? We don't know what he's capable of. If we let him loose in the prison? In here with us? We're inviting him to do something. If we let him loose out there? We're right back where we were. But the next time he comes back with an army, he won't be willing to negotiate."

Daryl nodded his head and got to his feet again. He stepped into his pants and looked around for a moment before he found a shirt that he pulled over his head.

"What are you doing?" Carol asked.

"I'm going to get Rick," Daryl said. "We might not have slept last night, but we're sleeping tonight when it gets here."

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Michonne walked with Andrea down to D Block while Andrea carried the baby. No one was required to come to the meeting, held outside of their block so that the Governor couldn't overhear, but everyone was invited. Basically, if you chose not to come, you chose to reserve your opinions on whatever might happen.

Andrea and Michonne weren't missing it.

The common area of the block was a little more crowded than Michonne expected. When they got there, Michonne pushed Andrea toward a seat and took it upon herself to ask the person sitting there—one who had come in with the Governor—if they thought they could part with their chair for Andrea's sake. After all, it had been less than twenty four hours since she'd given birth, she was holding a newborn, and they had no idea how long they'd be standing there while decisions were made. Andrea insisted she was fine standing with the baby, but in the end, Michonne won out. She took her place, standing beside the chair while they waited for everyone else to get settled.

"We have to decide what to do about the Governor," Rick said when he seemed to feel that everyone was ready. "We agreed that we'd wait until the baby was born so that he wouldn't jeopardize Andrea's pregnancy. The baby's here. He kept us awake half the night when the Governor wasn't keeping us awake for the other half. We have to decide what to do about the Governor. He's right. We can't keep him locked up forever. That isn't who we are."

"No, it's exactly who we are," Carol pointed out. She didn't do it in a very loud voice, but Michonne heard it thanks to her proximity to the woman. She was sure that anyone around her heard it too.

"If we don't keep him locked up, there ain't but two choices," Daryl said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. "We let him go or we kill him. But if we let him go, we expect trouble because there ain't no way that we're getting outta that."

"He's promised that he won't do anything," Tara said. "He's promised that he won't bother anyone."

"He also said we were the ones that attacked him," Daryl responded to her. "But really, we were the ones lost people because of him. And almost lost others."

"Turning him loose in the prison isn't an option," Michonne said. "It isn't. He can't live here in the prison with us, free to go and do as he pleases. If he does? Andrea and I? The baby? All of us become prisoners in our own home because we'll have to lock ourselves in our cell to stay safe."

"Until he figures out how to get a key," Andrea said. "Or how to get the doors open."

"I don't want him loose in the prison either," Maggie said.

"I'll third or fourth that," Glenn said. "Whatever number we're up to. He can't be trusted. Not to live with us."

"So we let him go out there," Tyreese said, "or we kill him. That's what we're down to?"

"If we let him go out there," Sasha offered, "then he's coming back. He's been here before, more than once. He'll come back."

"Exactly," Carol said, raising her voice this time. "If he leaves, he won't stay gone. If he goes? We're right back where we before he came the last time. We're spending every day on edge, wondering if he'll come that day. This time, though, when he comes back he won't be open to negotiating with us. He'll just kill us."

"So we clean up one piece of shit to save everyone that matters," Abraham said. "Glad we got that shit settled. So do we draw straws to see who does it or the first one there wins?"

Michonne heard Andrea snort, but she covered the sound over quickly by turning her attention to shushing the baby who didn't actually need to be shushed at the moment.

"Is it really right," Hershel offered, "to kill a man who hasn't done us any harm since he promised that he wouldn't?"

"You treated Andrea," Michonne said, directly to Hershel. "You know how Maggie feels. Glenn. He killed Daryl's brother and practically the whole town of Woodbury. You've seen what he's capable of doing."

"But killing him, when he's said that he'll change, without giving him a chance to prove he's changed seems like we're saying that people are always what they were," Hershel said. "Killing him for what he's done in the past suggests that he can't redeem himself. And if he can't redeem himself, then none of us can. We're signaling the end of our own humanity."

"We're signaling the end of that motherfucker," Abraham said.

"Hershel's right," Rick said. "We let him in here voluntarily. We told him he could live among us as long as he changed his ways. Now—he hasn't done anything to anyone besides being annoying, and that was never against the law before. If we go in there and we kill him, we're changing who _we_ are. And we need to think—to really think—about whether or not that's the kind of change we want to make in ourselves."

Daryl paced a little, back and forth, in the space that surrounded him. Michonne watched him. She knew him well enough, by now, to know that he did that when he was bothered by something. He did that when he was trying to work something out for himself. She was right. When the pacing stopped, before anyone else had anything else to say on the matter, Daryl spoke.

"We've cleaned a lot of the prison up now," Daryl said. "We've got space. We could spread out. But so far we ain't spread out. Even the people that come in, they moved into C. Block D is just as clean as C. It's just as good and just as ready to go. But now everybody's settled. Comfortable. That leaves a lot of space that just ain't being used. Maybe we don't kill him. And maybe we don't turn him loose. Not exactly."

"Keeping him locked up is no longer an option," Rick said with a sigh. "We can't keep doing that."

"Not locked up," Daryl said. "At least, no more locked up than we are. We open up cell block D. The exits to it lead to the yard, but if we close and lock the fences, it breaks the yard up. Give him his own space. His own damn _block._ His own part of the yard. He's got all we got. He's just got it separate. We're as locked up as he is. He's as damn free as we are."

"We know where he is," Carol said, seeming to pick up the thread where Daryl dropped it for a second. "We know where he is but he's not with us. Anyone who wants to go and live in that block—they're free to go live with him."

"The time will come when he'll want to talk about joining the general population," Rick said. "Not being isolated. You remember what happened with those that were here when we got here."

"And if he proves himself to be able to act like a human, maybe we'll talk about it when that time gets here," Daryl said. "I ain't saying it's forever. I'm saying it's a solution for now. It's a step in some direction."

"At least he'd have some space," Tara said. "At least Lilly and Meghan would have some room. Some of us—we could live there. Maybe we could find a way to _prove_ that he's changed."

"It's the best plan we've got so far," Rick said after a moment. "Michonne? Andrea?"

"I don't think he even needs to be alive anymore," Michonne admitted, seeing that Andrea wasn't going to respond in any way. "But—if we're not going to kill him, I think that's the best idea we've got. He's away from us, but not far enough away that we don't know what he's doing."

"Anyone object?" Rick asked. "Anyone have a—a _better_ idea?"

Michonne thought that Rick's amendment to his question was probably because he could imagine that there were quite a few of them that would object to the man's continued existence in any shape or form. None of them, though, had a better plan that would both keep him alive and keep them alive as well. When no one spoke out, Rick nodded his head.

"Fine," he said. "It's settled. We clean up D Block. Get anything out of there that anybody wants. Close the fences and lock them to divide up the yard. We move the Governor, and anyone who wants to go with him, into D this evening."


	69. Chapter 69

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here. Not that much more to go.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl and Abraham were escorting the Governor to his new home in the prison. Michonne was assisting them. Honestly, it was a risky decision if it mattered to anyone that the man remain alive, because all three of them could have been perfectly happy ending the man's life and then going to have lunch.

Still, they were doing what they were instructed to do and they were honoring the wishes of the group. Rick and some of the others were spreading the news around to anyone who hadn't been in the meeting that they were welcome, if they so desired, to join the Governor in "his" portion of the prison and they could live happily with the leader that had brought them there—the man that they'd worried about while he'd been locked up but couldn't seem to care less about now that he was gaining a little more freedom away from them. Michonne wasn't seeing a rush of people headed to gather at his side.

"I guess this means you won, Michonne," the Governor said, walking through the corridors, surrounded, like the common prisoner that Michonne thought he should be. "You won. You got Andrea. You got the baby. My baby. You know, Michonne, she'll always be my daughter."

"I don't think so," Michonne said, not pointing out to him that their son—who they were still trying to name—wasn't the daughter that the man thought he had in the world now.

"She is," the Governor insisted. "She'll never be yours. Not really. And Andrea—she's always going to know that. She's always going to think about me when she looks at the baby."

"Didn't no damn body tell you to talk," Daryl said, shoving the man forward. "Didn't no damn body _invite_ you to talk. Besides, it ain't your fuckin' kid neither."

The Governor laughed.

"I'm sorry—Daryl? I don't suppose you think it's Michonne's child?" The Governor responded, though he did keep walking.

"I'm not a dumb ass," Daryl remarked. "And that's why the hell I know it's Merle's." Michonne felt as struck by the statement as she imagined the Governor might be, but she didn't say anything. "He fuckin' told me he'd been shackin' up with Andrea when he got here. Right behind your damn back. You too stupid to know. She stayed with your ass because the livin' was good, but that was about all the hell that was good with you, according to Merle."

"Merle wasn't ever with Andrea," the Governor pointed out.

"See, they had your ass so damn fooled you don't even know when I'm flat out tellin' you it's true," Daryl said. "Kid looks just like Merle did. Spittin' damn image of him. Andrea ain't thinkin' of shit but Merle Dixon when she looks at the kid. So it ain't your damn kid. You got that wrong. What you did get right, though, is Michonne won. Every damn thing there is to win, she won it."

When they reached the door that opened to the cell block, Daryl reached out and stopped the Governor's forward progress. Michonne could tell that the man was still processing what he'd heard and deciding if he believed it or not. She, too, was trying to decide if it was a tactic by Daryl or if it was true.

Honestly she could convince herself either way.

Abraham unlocked the door to the cell block and Daryl shoved the Governor forward so that, whether or not he wanted to, he had to take several rapid steps to keep his footing and ended up inside his newly designated space. Daryl followed him in and unlocked the cuffs they'd put on him to get him that far. For good measure, Michonne kept her hand on her katana in case she might find reason to put it to use. She was hoping the man made a move, but he didn't.

"Place is all fixed up for you," Daryl said. "Seen to it. You'll find blankets. Clothes. Water. There's wood outside for building you a fire for cooking and there's food. Door to the outside is open. That yard's blocked off. You can go any damn where you please as long as that's where you're wanting to go. Everything else is locked off to you."

"And don't get any ideas of exploring deeper into the prison," Michonne pointed out. "Because there aren't that many spaces available to you here. Behind one of the doors, you'll find a fence full of Walkers. And behind the other? Just more Walkers."

Abraham laughed to himself and it rang in the space.

"Enjoy your home, asshole," Abraham commented.

"Where's Lilly?" The Governor asked.

"Reckon she'll be along shortly," Daryl said. "Unless she decides she's had enough of you. Don't seem to be too many damn takers for moving into paradise with you."

He backed out of the cell block and closed the door, checking it twice to make sure it was locked before he slipped the chain he carried through the bars, wrapped it a few times, and secured it with a deadbolt. Michonne trusted him, but she checked herself anyway, just to be sure that everything was as secure as it could be.

The Governor spat some protests at them all, as they walked away, but Michonne ignored them and she was pretty sure that her other companions did too.

She waited until they were well out of hearing distance to speak to Daryl.

"Was that true what you said?" Michonne asked. "About Merle and Andrea?"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I don't know if they were fuckin'," Daryl said. "I weren't there. But—Merle didn't tell me that. Still, shut his ass up, didn't it?"

Michonne nodded, keeping step beside him with Abraham just in front of them.

"I think," Michonne said, "that I would have rather the baby be Merle's."

Daryl chuckled.

"Merle was a pretty ugly ass kid," Daryl said. "Didn't never grow out of it. And he wouldn't have been any kind of old man."

"Maybe not," Michonne said. "But—the baby would've had a pretty good uncle."

"He's already got enough of those," Abraham said from in front of them. "To hell with blood."

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"What do you want me to say, Tara?" Lilly asked.

"I don't want you to say _anything_ ," Tara said. "I want you to stay with me. Out here. You've been locked up with him for months, Lilly. You and Meghan both. He doesn't care about you. All he cares about is getting to Andrea. Making everyone here pay for what he thinks they've done."

"You don't know him at all," Lilly said. "You don't. He cared about Andrea. He loved her. And she tried to kill him. She tried to get other people killed. These people, Tara? They're not good people. They've kept us all locked up and they—they mock him. They harass him. He hasn't done anything and they threaten him day and night. All he wants? Is to get that baby away from them for its own good. He wants to take care of the baby."

"So he's brainwashed you, too?" Tara asked.

"It's you who's been brainwashed," Lilly said, shaking her head. "Brian got you here. He took care of us. All of us. And you've turned your back on him because—because...they give you food?"

"They are _good_ people!" Tara said. "They're good people. They've welcomed all of us. They'd welcome you too. Meghan. They're good people. And he wanted us to kill them. He wanted us to blow up their home—the one they're willing to share with us—and kill them."

"He wanted a home for us," Lilly said. "And he got that. Even though he's had to sacrifice his own freedom and his own happiness? He got us a safe place where there aren't dead people trying to eat us constantly. He sacrificed _himself_ for _us_. For all of us. And I'm the only one that hasn't turned my back on him. I'm not going to turn my back on him. And, really, I'm disappointed in you, Tara."

Tara swallowed and set her face against the words of her sister. She wanted to be with her sister. She wanted to be with her niece. And, honestly, she'd believed what Lilly was saying when they'd gotten there. She'd believed that Brian was a kind person and that he wanted what was best for all of them. She'd believed that the people who lived in this prison must be the horrible people that he described them to be. But now? Now she knew them. She heard what they all said about the people that he'd killed. She could see the scars on Andrea's body as easily as anyone else could. She'd heard Michonne's story about how he lost his eye—one of the pieces of evidence that he used against her—and she'd heard her story about what happened with his daughter that he claimed she "killed" in cold blood.

Tara believed all of them more than she believed Brian because, even if they had their problems and clearly disagreed on things sometimes, the one thing they didn't disagree on was that Brian was not the kind of man that anyone should trust.

Trusting Brian just got you killed.

"We're all we've got left," Tara said. "You and me and Meghan. We're all we've got left. There's nobody else. Daddy's dead. It's just us now."

"We have Brian," Lilly offered. Tara shook her head at her sister.

"You'd rather be with him than me?" Tara asked.

"You'd rather be with these people than with me and Meghan?" Lilly countered.

"I can't trust him," Tara said. "Not anymore. Not after what I've seen and what I've heard."

"And I can't trust them," Lilly said. "Not after what I've seen and heard. Not after what I've experienced. I've seen their cruelty. I've only heard about his."

"Come talk to Andrea," Tara said. Lilly shook her head at her. "Come talk to her. Come—just come see her. Let her show you the scars, Lilly. Let her show you."

Lilly shook her head.

"I can't talk to her," Lilly said. "Because, if I did? I'd have to tell her—what I thought about her. What I thought about—her trying to have him killed. About her trying to have everyone in his town killed."

Tara shook her head. She had no idea what Brian was telling her—things, no doubt, in addition to even the lies he'd told them before—but she was sure that none of them were true.

"She didn't try to have him killed," Tara said. "She didn't try to have anyone killed. He killed them. He killed everyone in that town. He tried to kill her too."

"She won't let him even see his child," Lilly said. "She won't let him know that the child is safe. That's all he wants. He wants to know the baby is safe. He wants it to keep it safe. To make sure that Michonne won't—kill it. She's crazy. She killed his daughter."

Tara shook her head.

"She didn't kill his daughter," Tara said. "She didn't. His daughter was dead. She was one of them. One of those _things_. And he kept her in a closet. Chained up. Michonne put her down. She put her down. She let her rest. Michonne didn't kill her." Lilly shook her head, but Tara continued, trying to keep her voice from cracking so that her sister would take her seriously and not accuse her, as she had so many times in the past, of being a cry baby who couldn't get through anything that was even remotely challenging without breaking down. "That's Andrea's baby. You couldn't ask her to hand it over to him. You couldn't, could you? Would you hand Meghan over? Just—give her away? If Michael came back and just wanted her? Could you give her away?"

"Michael abandoned us," Lilly said. "Brian didn't abandon her."

"Worse," Tara said. "He tortured her and locked her in a room with one of the dead. He left her there to die." She sucked in a breath. "He's gotten into your head. You didn't want to come here anymore than I did at first. You didn't want to do this. But we came because we didn't have anywhere else to go. This was the best thing we could imagine. Now? We're here. But you've forgotten that you weren't sold on this in the first place. You've forgotten that his story made us uncomfortable. You let him get into your head."

"They showed me what kind of people they are," Lilly said. "You forget that I've been locked in that cell too. I just hope, Tara, that they don't show you what kind of people they are. I've got to do what's right for me, though. What's right for Meghan. And we're safer with Brian than we are out here with them."

Tara shook her head.

"You're wrong," Tara said.

"No, Tara," Lilly said, her voice taking on the higher pitch that it always had when she was irritated. "You're wrong."

Tara bit her lip and nodded her head at her sister, accepting that she wasn't going to change her mind. Nobody could change Lilly's mind except Lilly.

"Yeah," Tara said. "I hope I am."


	70. Chapter 70

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **There are probably about 11 more chapters to go.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"Andrew," Michonne said.

"What?" Andrea asked, bundling the freshly changed baby against the chill in the cell.

"Andrew," Michonne said. "What about Andrew? I like the name and—it sounds like Andrea. Maybe that's why I like it."

"Then it's got nothing from you," Andrea said.

Michonne laughed to herself.

"I gave it to him, that's plenty enough for me," she said. "Besides, I just don't think he's going to want to go through life with some created name that he gets tired of trying to explain to everyone. Andrew. It's simple. It's nice."

"Andrew?" Andrea mused. She repeated the name a few times like she was trying it out to see how it felt on her tongue. She spoke it to the infant that was less aware of it than he was of anything else. The corner of her mouth curled up in a half smile. "I don't hate it," she said. "If—if that's what you like."

"I don't want you to name him anything you don't want to call him," Michonne pointed out, finishing folding the small pile of cloth diapers that Carol had brought to her. She left them, stacked and easy to get to when they needed them, and came toward the bed where Andrea was already settled in with the baby. "If you like something else..." Michonne shrugged to finish it. She eased her way onto the mattress and over Andrea's body to settle beside her. She touched a finger to the cheek of the baby who was, at the moment, simply looking around at everything his short span of vision had to show him. He tensed his cheek muscles at the touch, made a sucking movement that got him nothing, and panted at Andrea like he might cry if he didn't get his before bed meal soon. Michonne couldn't help but smile at him.

She hadn't known how she'd feel about him. She hadn't known if she might find it difficult to get over the fact that he was the Governor's son. But now that he was there, she couldn't think of him as anything less than the most perfect little boy that she'd ever seen.

He wasn't to blame for his father.

He didn't want to kill anyone. He didn't want to hurt anyone. His interests were primarily sleep and milk and snuggles. And in the quiet hours of the nights that had made up his very short life, to try and let Andrea steal just a few more moments of sleep, Michonne enjoyed those snuggles all by herself while she nuzzled him against her and tapped her finger repeatedly on the pacifier that he sucked to keep him from crying over a breakfast that was, most assuredly, coming before he managed to starve to death.

Michonne didn't hate him for his father's sins. She realized she loved him far more than she'd ever even imagined possible.

"We can call him whatever you want," Michonne said. "Just make sure you like it, because it's a name we're going to be using for a very, very long time. Maybe, even, it's going to be one of the last words that either of us ever says. Because he's—he's going to outlive both of us."

Andrea was frowning at the baby, but Michonne was pretty certain that the newborn hadn't displeased her in some way. Despite Hershel's concerns that maybe Andrea would find it difficult to bond with the baby, she seemed as deeply enamored of him as any mother ever had been before. Michonne touched Andrea's cheek, then, to draw her attention and Andrea looked at her, the frown still drawing down the corners of her mouth.

"I don't want to lose him," Andrea said.

Michonne shook her head.

"We won't," Michonne said.

"You know as well as I do, Mich, that it happens," Andrea said. " _Better_."

Michonne's chest caught at the words and she nodded her head.

"I do," Michonne agreed. "But I also know that—if any baby has a chance of making it? He does. Because you're not letting him go and I've seen you—I know how you fight if you've made up your mind not to let go. And me? When I lost my girls, I was a different person than I am now. I didn't know what I know now." Michonne laughed to herself. "And with all the uncles and aunts he's got around here? If someone or something wanted to hurt him? They'd have to _actually_ come through hell and half of Georgia to do it."

Andrea pulled the corners of her mouth upward into something resembling a smile, but Michonne could tell that fear was keeping it from blossoming entirely. She nodded her head.

"I like Andrew," she said.

"Then we'll call him Andrew," Michonne responded.

"I love Andrew," Andrea said, clearly practicing the baby's name for the first time as his actual name. He screwed his face up at her, but it had less to do with the name than it did with the fact that he was nearing more and more the point of expecting what she was teaching him to expect when they settled into bed at night.

"I love Andrew too," Michonne said. "And—I think that _Andrew_ would love it if you'd give him his late night snack now."

Andrea laughed low in her throat, but the laughter lightened the expression on her face some.

"I love you too," Andrea pointed out.

"Yeah," Michonne said. "There's always that. I love you too."

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"You looked like a natural tonight with the baby," Carol teased Daryl when he came back into the cell from stepping out to shower off. She slipped her bookmark into the book that she was reading and took her reading glasses off, folding them closed before she put them with the book on the bedside table. The light was dim in the cell, but she was certain that she saw Daryl blush a little with the compliment.

"Was just holding him a minute," Daryl said. "Andrea had to go to the bathroom and Michonne was busy."

"There's nothing wrong with it," Carol said, trying to offer him a little reassurance that her teasing was just that. "I just—walked in when you were holding him. And you looked comfortable. _He_ certainly looked comfortable. You put him to sleep like you were the sandman."

Daryl seemed to visibly relax. Carol could see the drop in his shoulders that came with the release of a little extra tension. He tossed the damp towel he'd been wearing around his shoulders into the laundry pile and shimmied out of the pants that had brought him from the shower room to their cell. He left them, as he usually did, in a puddle on the floor of the cell and came to bed. As he crawled over Carol, he stopped, hovering over her, to kiss her. She returned the kiss with a little playful physical teasing to go with her verbal teasing. She caught his lip, forcing him to come back for more of a kiss before he could break free and drop onto his side of the bed with enough force to shake the entire mattress.

"Baby was asleep when I got him," Daryl said. "I didn't do nothing."

"Except keep him from realizing that his mother had handed him over to someone else," Carol said. "Sometimes that's doing more than you'd think."

"'Chonne woulda took him," Daryl said, "but she was outside."

Carol knew that Michonne had been outside. Michonne hadn't reappeared in the prison until halfway through the meal when she came in and, as silently as she did most things, propped her katana in the corner of the room and left her coat on a chair. She'd taken her place beside Andrea, but she hadn't said anything to anyone—and no one demanded an explanation from Michonne that she didn't offer first.

"Where was she?" Carol asked. "Do you know?"

"Of course I know," Daryl said. "She was the same damn place she almost always is. Outside checking that fence. Making sure he ain't—found some way to cut holes in it or something. Fence is sound. We checked it more'n once before we moved him in there, but she don't hardly rest for checking it. Going back and forth and shaking the doors between him and us—making sure they closed. I check 'em too, but they always stay closed unless that woman or that kid is coming in or out."

Lilly and her daughter were living with the Governor. The past few days, they'd come and gone as they pleased. Tara would make several trips a day to visit them and sometimes they would venture out into the prison for a short visit with her. Carol had rarely come into contact with the woman when she was outside of the Governor's area of the prison because Lilly seemed to try to avoid all of them. It was as though she thought that, outside of his presence, they'd do something to force her to stay away from the man. They wouldn't, though. She made her own choices. She could choose to live with him if that's what she wanted.

For the time being, they were just happy that he seemed to have settled down and was quiet. He wasn't bothering any of them and he wasn't making demands. Even when Carol went to get the dirty clothes that he piled up for her by the entrance to his block, he stayed far enough away that she could come and go without even seeing him.

"She's nervous," Carol said. "And—I can't say that I blame her, can you?"

"Hell, no," Daryl said. "I didn't say I blamed her. She's scared he's gonna get out. And if he did get out? Hell—it'd be a toss up to figure out which one of our throats he'd cut first. I mean we all know it'd more'n likely be Andrea's, but if she didn't never let out no scream to let us know what he was doing? He'd make his way through a few of us before we all realized what was going on."

Carol's stomach twisted over the thought of it. Her suggestion to Andrea, quite some time in the past, had been to do the same thing to the Governor that Daryl was suggesting he might want to do to them, but imagining it happening to her family and friends—and even to herself—seemed far more horrible than imagining it happening to a man who would gladly kill all of them for nothing more than the satisfaction of doing so.

"You don't think he could get out?" Carol asked.

Daryl seemed to sense that she was uncomfortable at the thought because he moved closer to her and lent her his body heat along with some physical comfort.

"The locks are good. The bars is strong," Daryl said. "The fence is secure and Michonne don't hardly let it go an hour without checking it. Even if he could climb, Abraham wrapped that whole top up in barbed wire and I don't think he'd get over it without damn near bleeding out right where he landed on whatever the hell he broke. He ain't coming over here." He waited a moment, and Carol snuggled into him. "You scared?" He asked.

"I'm not— _terrified_ ," Carol responded, after she thought about it for a moment. "But I'm not comfortable. I'm—I guess I'm uneasy."

Daryl kissed the side of her face, right at her temple, and kept his lips pressed there for a second. Carol closed her eyes to the simple kiss. For its simplicity, it was one of the nicest gestures that she could imagine at the moment. When he moved his lips, he shifted around on the mattress and Carol leaned her head against him before she rearranged the covers over the both of them.

"He ain't gettin' over here," Daryl said. "I'da rather put a bullet in his brain, myself, but the prison's secure. That's what the hell it was built to be. He ain't half the criminal that some of the assholes that died in here 'cause they couldn't get out were."

"I hope you're right," Carol said.

"And if he does?" Daryl said. "We'll stop him. And this time? Won't nobody be able to say you can't shoot him. Because if they try to stop me? We'll shoot them too for being just as damn dangerous to every one of us."

Carol sighed.

"I'd rather nobody have to die," Carol said. "I'd rather it not come to that. But..."

"But?" Daryl asked, nudging her.

"But if somebody has to, I hope it's him," Carol said.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"It will be," he assured her. "Shit's got you tense, don't it?"

Carol hummed to confirm his suspicions and he moved like he was getting out of the bed. She looked at him and he slipped a hand behind her back, pushing her like he was going to separate her from her pillow and make her sit straight forward. When she furrowed her brows at him in question, the corner of his mouth quickly turned up.

"Turn around," he said. "Get the tension outta your shoulders, and you'll sleep better'n that kid was at dinner. I'm like the sandman, remember?"

Carol laughed to herself, but she did move, following Daryl's lead, to allow him to rub her shoulders. She groaned at him when he set about working out the tension that she didn't even realize she was carrying there.

"You're good at this," she said. "But—you're good at a lot of things."

Daryl snorted.

"That's for after the massage," Daryl said.

"Wake me up to put me to sleep?" Carol asked, letting a little amusement slip into her voice.

"All part of the plan," Daryl responded.


	71. Chapter 71

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne was almost dizzy when she woke. She couldn't tell if the screams that rang in her ears were still coming from the nightmare that she'd fought her way out of or if they were actually in the waking universe into which she'd come tumbling. Andrea stirred beside her and got out of the bed in a scramble. The speed behind her movements told Michonne that the screams were there and they were real—even if she wasn't entirely certain where they were coming from.

As soon as reality hit her, Michonne found her own will to move. She crawled out of the bed as quickly as she could and scrambled to get to the corner of the cell where her katana was leaned against the wall. She hissed at Andrea as the woman stepped out of the cell into the darkened corridor, and she winced when Andrew, stirred up by the noise around him, let out a howl that only added to the din.

"Andrea! Andrea! Get him! Get him quiet!" Michonne spat.

Andrea turned around as quickly as she'd made her way out of the cell and ran back in. She went straight to the bassinet where the three week old infant was wailing and scooped him up.

"What's going on?" Andrea asked.

Michonne, barely bothering with clothes, hung out of the cell door and looked around. Darkness meant that she couldn't see too far in either direction from where she stood.

"I don't know," she responded.

Suddenly another blood curdling scream rang out and echoed around the prison block before Michonne heard the stamping sound of boots on the concrete floors and the unmistakable cry of "Walkers" that forced her entirely out of her half-sleepy stupor and into reality. It didn't matter who it was, at that moment, the trouble was nearby. Michonne darted out of the cell and looked both ways to try to decide which direction she was most likely needed in. The cries bounced around so that it was impossible to pinpoint exactly where they coming from.

But she didn't have to wait long for direction. The Walker emerged from the enveloping darkness so unexpectedly that his icy fingers brushed her skin before she ever heard the growl he emitted from the satisfaction of having found food. Her katana unsheathed, Michonne immediately sliced through the corpse and dropped him, his upper body still writhing, to the ground. She quickly put him down only to realize that he wasn't alone. Rushing down the corridor as quickly as they could come, stirred up by the noises around them, were several of his nearest and dearest friends all looking to take revenge on Michonne.

Michonne backed up as quickly. Andrea, having quieted Andrew for a few moments, was coming out of the cell with a knife to try and help any way she could. Michonne did the only thing that she could think to do at the moment and she shoved Andrea backward as hard as she could, pushing her into the cell. She called out an apology to her as she pulled the door to the cell shut and locked Andrea inside with the baby. Finding herself without time for explanation, she left her there and started working her way through the Walkers, sure that on the other side of the bunch of them she'd find more that were terrorizing the others in her group.

She could only hope that they were all fighting, and that she wasn't too late, because it seemed that they were overrun and she knew that she had no hope of clearing the prison block herself—not if the bunch of Walkers nearest her own cell were any indication of how many more there were to come.

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It was the rudest awakening that Carol could ever imagine. She'd barely heard the screams in her sleep before she heard Daryl shouting at her. There was a Walker in their cell before she'd come into full consciousness and if Daryl hadn't hit the floor when he had, she might not have been awake in time to save herself.

Knife in hand and already covered in more Walker muck than she wanted to think about at this hour, Carol was rushing around and trying to put down every Walker she could reach. The scrambling back and forth of people—most of them fighting but some of them simply panicking—wasn't helping the confusion and nobody had taken the time light any lamps that might ease the struggle of getting control of the herd.

There wasn't time to ask where they'd come from, how they'd gotten in, or even how to stop their coming. Those were questions that they'd address later. For the time being, the only concern was trying to keep more people from being torn apart than were already destroyed.

Hopeful that Michonne could handle Andrea and Andrew, Carol made her way through the prison toward the cell where Judith slept. Her chest seized up when she found her crib empty and Carol stopped long enough to light a lamp and search for signs that the child had been snatched up by a Walker instead of by a human. The lack of blood in the cell, though, told Carol that it was more than likely Rick or someone close by that had taken the little one.

She used her next burst of energy to fight through Walkers and head toward Hershel's cell. Disabled, he would have a harder time fighting the crowd that was descending on them. She was stopped in her progress, though, by the sight of five Walkers feeding on something in the middle of the corridor. Five Walkers were feeding on _someone_.

Carol's approach caught the interest of the Walkers and for a moment she had to move from keeping her back to the wall for protection. She trusted that those fighting somewhere behind her would keep her from getting swamped from that end because she was going to need to face the five that were interested in her head on.

Carol dropped the first Walker with ease and the second as well. By the time she squared off with the third, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest from the exhaustion and from the adrenaline overload of the moment. She sunk her knife into his head just as the fourth started to push against her. She was surprised, when she pulled her knife out of the fourth's head, to find that Hershel was there and he had already taken down the last of the Walkers that she was concerned about.

"Carol?" He asked.

"Hershel?" She asked, even though she already knew it was him.

"Beth is locked in my cell with Judith," Hershel said. "I was coming to see what I could help with."

"I was coming to check on you," Carol said, laughing to herself even though the situation lacked any real humor. "They got..." Carol stopped because she didn't know who it was that the Walkers had been feasting on and, in the dark, she couldn't tell anything.

"Mary," Hershel said, his voice dropping. "I heard her when it happened. There wasn't anything that I could do."

Carol swallowed. The woman had offered some companionship and comfort to Hershel since her arrival to the prison. No doubt, she was coming just as Carol had to try and make sure that he was safe. Clearly, though, she hadn't been ready for the number of Walkers that were freely roaming around the prison.

"I'm sorry," Carol said. Hershel hummed at her and Carol understood that they were empty words. "Can you get back into your cell?"

"Not until things die down," Hershel said. "Not until we have keys."

"Close yourself in Judith's cell," Carol said. "I left a lamp burning. It seems like most of the Walkers are at that end, now, but do it just to be safe."

"You should stay in there with me," Hershel said. "Keep safe."

Carol hummed in the negative at Hershel's suggestion.

"I'm safe," she said. "But I've got to help clear the prison. Everyone isn't out of danger yet."

"They might not ever be," Hershel offered quietly. He took his leave of her, though, and Carol watched him for just a moment as he made his way toward Judith's cell to do what Carol had suggested. She didn't linger there long, though, because she could already hear the calling for help that was drifting from the other end of the block. Carol double timed her steps and rushed in the direction of the danger hoping that she could get there before she was simply left killing Walkers again that had been gnawing on people she cared for.

Before she could reach where the majority of the trouble seemed to be concentrated, Carol hit a few small patches of Walkers. She fought her way through them, thankful for the fact that the sun seemed to be rising outside and was offering them some light—though minimal—by which to see their attackers. As she dropped one Walker that was almost rotted enough to have simply crumbled in on himself, she heard her name being called and glanced around to find where it was coming from.

It was Ryan. By the time that Carol saw the man, he was clawing at her arm with the same ferocity of the Walkers.

"Carol—you have to help me," he said. "You have to help me. My girls..."

Ryan was frantic and Carol's eyes immediately fell to his arm. He was holding it tight with his hand, but there was enough light for Carol to see that his sleeve was soaked with blood.

"Are you bit?" Carol asked.

"You have to help me," Ryan repeated. It was confirmation enough for Carol that he'd been bit. The only way to save him, Carol knew, would be to get the arm off before the fever was allowed to spread. She pushed him toward a cell and he went willingly, practically pulling her along with him. He took her straight to his own cell and there, huddled in the corner and hugging each other, she found his two young daughters.

"Do you have a belt, Ryan?" Carol asked. "A belt?" She repeated when he seemed to have a hard time hearing her. He gestured toward a pile of clothes on the floor and Carol rummaged through it and found what she was looking for. She kept an eye on the door of the cell to make sure that they weren't approached by any Walkers as she made her way to the bed and quickly looped the belt around Ryan's arm. "This is going to hurt," she warned him. "And it's going to be awful and I'm so—I'm so sorry, but the only way to stop the fever is to get your arm off, Ryan."

He blubbered about understanding and Carol didn't hold his fear against him anymore than she held the fear of the two girls behind her against them.

Carol pushed Ryan for him to lie down, assuming he'd be lucky enough to pass out from the pain, but when she reached her hand around behind his neck to help him get comfortable, she felt a wetness that made her stomach turn. She closed her eyes for a just a moment and took a breath to steady her nerves before she looked at her hand and faced what she already knew would be there.

The blood was fresh.

Carol stood enough to look at Ryan's neck and saw the bite. He broke and cried a little more sincerely, evidently aware of what she would find.

"There's nothing I can do," she said, lowering her voice. "I'm so sorry. There's nothing I can do."

Ryan nodded his head at her.

"You can," he said.

Carol shook her head.

"If I—cut above the bite? It'd kill you anyway," Carol said.

He shook his head at her.

"My girls," he said. "You can—take my girls. You can raise them, Carol. Will you take them? Will you—take my girls?"

Carol glanced over her shoulder at the girls who, in hugging each other and crying to themselves, weren't entirely focused on their conversation.

"Ryan, I..." She started, but Ryan cut her off.

"Please," he pleaded with her. "Promise me that you'll take them. They don't have anyone else. All they had was me. Please, Carol."

Carol didn't know what Daryl would say. She didn't know how she would handle it herself. But she felt that she had no other choice. She sucked in a breath and nodded at Ryan.

"OK," she said quietly. "OK, I promise."

"Promise me you'll raise them," Ryan said. "Promise me—you'll raise them like they're your own."

Carol swallowed around the lump that was choking her the best that she could. She nodded again.

"I promise," she said. "Ryan? You need to stay calm. You have to talk to them. You have to let them say goodbye."

He shook his head at her.

"No," he said.

Carol nodded back.

"Yes," she said. "You have to. You have to—tell them what you want to say. You have to let them say goodbye. And then? I promise you. I'll take care of them...just as though...as though they were my own."


	72. Chapter 72

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **Maybe 7 (tops) more chapters to go.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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When the small amount of light that the rising sun afforded the prison began to illuminate everything, Michonne was thankful. Being able to see was going to greatly help everyone as they fought against the veritable swamp of Walkers around them. As she made her way through the prison, Michonne took the opportunity to slash at every Walker she could reach without leaving her path, but she left most of them alone for her comrades to handle.

Michonne had more important things to take care of in the chaos that surrounded them.

Her initial question upon finding the prison swamped with Walkers was _how_ the Walkers had gained access to the prison. She knew, very well, that the fences were secure. She'd worked tirelessly with the others to secure them as well as was humanly possible. In the areas where the Walkers seemed to gather in the largest numbers, the fences were three or four layers thick with obstacles that the non-reasoning creatures couldn't overcome.

And even if the fences failed, the Walkers would simply flood the yards. They'd destroy livestock and possibly tear down food storage—both horrible things for the winter that wasn't anywhere near over—but they wouldn't gain immediate access to people. They wouldn't wake to find the prison flooded with the living dead. Rather, they'd simply wake to the sound of them begging entrance at the doors and clawing at the stone walls that would hold them out.

These Walkers had come from _inside_.

Michonne knew, as well as everyone living in the prison did, that there was an unpredictable number of Walkers within the walls of the prison. The tombs, as they called them, were overrun with the corpses of prisoners, guards, and civilians alike. The back part of the prison had been destroyed, no doubt when the government had tried to destroy their own people to regain control over the dead, and through the back part of the prison the Walkers trickled inside in a steady stream, likely originally drawn by the trapped prisoners that died in their place of captivity. They remained, and others joined them, simply because Walkers were pack animals and they went, with or without motivation, where there were others.

The Walkers that descended upon them tonight were those Walkers, let loose in a place where they could smell the living and were stirred up by the idea of a fresh meal. And the only way those Walkers could have escaped the maze that they called home was if somebody had _let_ them free.

Reaching his block, Michonne's stomach dropped when she saw what she already knew she would see. The door to the block was wide open. Milling about inside the space, still working on finding their way into the main part of the prison, were more Walkers. At a glance, the Governor was nowhere to be seen. Confident she hadn't passed him, though, and certain that he was still there somewhere, Michonne pressed forward into the block and cleared the Walkers as she went before they were able to bunch up on her. As soon as she was inside the block, she quickly pushed the door shut and locked herself into the space. Though she wasn't out there clearing the prison with the others, at least she could keep more Walkers from getting through to them.

Michonne lopped off the heads of a few Walkers that came toward her and when she looked down to drive her katana through their still-chomping heads, she saw something on the floor that caught her eye. She bent down and picked it up, turning it over in her hand for a moment.

 _The key to the cell block._

There were three of them around. That was all that they'd scavenged around the prison. Rick had one set of keys. One set of keys was locked away, secured, for them to use if something should happen to anyone who carried the other keys. The third set hung on a hook in the room where they usually took their meals and was a community set of keys that anyone could use to move throughout the prison at will. The third set of keys was the one that Tara would most often use to visit her sister.

 _It was the key that her sister would bring to her boyfriend as a gift of good faith and trust._

"Fucking bitch," Michonne growled to herself. She pocketed the key, knowing that she would later need it to let herself out of the space. She looked around, still taking out whatever Walkers dared to come near her, for any hint as to the whereabouts of the Governor, Lilly, or the little girl. Seeing nothing, she pressed onward until she reached the entrance to the tombs. She, herself, had pointed it out to the Governor as somewhere he didn't want to go. Apparently, though, she was wrong because the door was open. Undoubtedly, it was exactly where he wanted to go.

And, maybe, it was where he wanted her to go. After all, he didn't seem like the kind of man to commit suicide by Walker.

Michonne left the door to the tombs open. The light of day didn't filter into the space and if she needed to get out quickly, she didn't want to find herself trapped. The Walkers that escaped through the door wouldn't matter because they'd be contained in the cell block. She could deal with them on her way out.

She would have to trust everyone else to take care of whatever was happening out there. They were on their own, just as she was on her own, and she knew she had to focus to keep from having just walked into her own death.

The solar panels that Tyreese and some of the others had worked on for the longest time were working at least a little. Either that or, noticing that people were missing, they'd kicked on the generators to the whole prison. There wasn't enough power to keep the lights on constantly, but they flickered every now and again. They would flash on, illuminating the space around Michonne for just a second, and then they would die and plunge her into a deeper darkness than the one she would have been in if they'd never come on.

With each flash of the light, Michonne set her course and progressed forward a little more. She kept her katana in front of her and she kept her back to the wall that she was walking along. More than once the lights surprised her, sending her heart into her throat, by revealing Walkers that were closer to her than she imagined in the blinding darkness.

 _It was like a carnival house from hell and Michonne was just as far in as she was out. She wasn't stopping until she was satisfied that the asshole was as dead as anyone had ever been before._

In the darkness of the twisting labyrinth, the flashing lights almost inducing a sort of nausea, Michonne lost all track of time. She lost all sense of direction. She was wandering, lost, and she knew it. Still, she continued wandering with her back to the wall, making a decision about how to progress every time the light afforded her the luxury of knowing anything about her surroundings. Eventually she was far enough away that she could hear nothing of the prison that she'd left behind—it was as if everyone had simply ceased to exist. She couldn't hear anything, in fact, except an occasional buzzing and crackle sound that made her worry about the electrical integrity of that part of the prison and the echoing growls and snarls of Walkers still trapped around her—all of which were trying to find her.

And then she heard something that she recognized, though she'd never expected that it would send the strange sort of shiver through her body that it did.

 _He was whistling. The pattern to the sounds he produced was the same pattern that he used to taunt Andrea. It was the sound that, more than once, they'd had to threaten his life to get him to stop._

The sound carried in the corridors of the tombs and it echoed around Michonne. It stirred up the growling of the Walkers and it made it almost impossible to know where it was coming from.

 _It made it almost impossible._

Michonne pressed on and followed the sound as well as she could. She tried to focus on the whistling and, instead of finding it intimidating, she forced herself to find it infuriating. She reminded herself that the sound—the taunting whistle—had been just one of the ways that he had toyed with Andrea and her emotions while he'd held her captive. The taunting whistle was just one of the reasons that Michonne was determined that the man _would_ die and she would be the one with the satisfaction of killing him.

A final corner turned and a flickering of the lights revealed to Michonne what she assumed to be an open cell with the door swung back in a different manner than most of the ones that she'd passed along her route to get this far. Her stomach lurched when she moved forward and saw him standing there. Behind him, clearly terrified and with good reason to be so, was the young girl that had come there with her mother. In front of him, a knife at her throat that she'd probably brought him as surely as she'd brought him the key, was Lilly.

Michonne had expected something similar, but she hadn't been prepared for how the sight would make her feel.

 _She trusted him. He'd let her trust him and he'd kept up the charade as long as he needed to in order to get what he wanted. Now he was going to be the reason the woman died. Maybe he'd be the reason her daughter died._

 _And nothing they said could have gotten her away from him. She had to see it for herself, even if it costed her everything._

"I was hoping you'd join me," the Governor said, smiling at Michonne.

"I was hoping I'd get a chance to kill you," Michonne said. "I guess dreams really do come true."

He laughed at her. She smiled at him. She focused on him—on everything he'd done and everything he was capable of doing—so that she didn't have to make eye contact with the woman or the child.

"I'm guessing that means you already met my friends," the Governor said. "The Biters?"

"They're mostly dead," Michonne said. "So I guess the same thing's true that's always been true. You don't have any friends."

The Governor clucked at her, but he laughed again.

"I was just beginning to think _we_ could be friends, Michonne," the Governor said. "We could put the past behind us. Let bygones be bygones. All that traditional kumbaya sentiment. It would make things much easier for you when I thin out your friends and take over the prison. Like it should have been."

Michonne laughed to herself.

"If you didn't hear me before, let me repeat myself," Michonne said. "Don't worry. There's an echo in here and it can be hard to understand. You're not taking over the prison. Your plan failed. We can handle Walkers and we have. And now? The only thing you've got a chance at taking over is hell when you get there."

The Governor straightened his stance a little and changed the woman's position like he was thrusting her forward to be sure that Michonne could see her there. Michonne could see her fine. She could also see, out of the corner of her eye, a Walker that was coming closer. She'd have to let it get practically on top of her before she stabbed it because she didn't want to be without her katana in front of her for too long.

She needed to anticipate any move that he might make—because he was going to make some kind of move.

"You're threatening me," the Governor said. "You're threatening them. A woman and a child, Michonne. If I die? _They_ die. And everyone knows that you're exactly who I've been saying you were all along. A murderer. You'd kill them just—just the same as you killed Penny."

Michonne swallowed. Her stomach churned. It wasn't the idea of the Walker child that he'd kept that turned her stomach, but rather it was the knowledge that he was right. If she killed him, the woman and the child would likely die. She _would_ be a murderer.

"Penny was already dead," Michonne said. "I won't apologize for that. And I won't apologize for killing you. You never apologized for all the people you killed and all the people you _tried_ to kill."

The Governor smiled at her over Lilly's shoulder.

"You'll be no better than me, Michonne," the Governor said.

"Maybe I never was," Michonne said. "It's a chance I'll have to take."

"So you'd let them both die?" The Governor asked. "Just to kill me? Michonne?"

Michonne sucked in a breath and screwed up whatever courage she could find against the slightly light headed feeling that came across her when she contemplated what her next move might have to be—and how it might all end.

Right or wrong, she brought Andrea's face to her mind. She remembered, on purpose, just how she'd looked the night before while she'd sat in bed with Michonne and sang some silly song about green frogs to Andrew. She remembered how she'd looked when she'd forced Michonne to play along, copying the silly faces she made for the benefit of the infant, and she remembered how genuinely happy she'd looked when she'd laughed at Michonne's willingness to play along. And then she drew to mind the way that she'd looked, crumpled and broken on the floor in a pool of her own blood, and the searing pain that it had sent through every fiber of Michonne's being to think that she'd gotten there just a moment too late.

 _She wasn't going to be too late. Not again._

Michonne felt her nerves calm as her anger settled into its place and took over.

"They made their choices," Michonne said. "And I respect other people's choices."


	73. Chapter 73

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne stood for a moment and examined her options. More of the labyrinth Walkers were starting to find them. She could hear them coming, their growls echoing in the hallways around her. Every time the lights flashed off she was at the mercy of the Walkers and the Governor, even though the man probably couldn't see any better than she could in the blackness. The fastest and easiest way to end him would to be make the quickest move she could into the cell and drive her sword through him. Even if he didn't die immediately, he _would_ die. The only problem to the plan, of course, was that he anticipated it and he was countering it by holding Lilly in front of him.

Michonne had no way to kill him, in his current position, unless she resigned herself to the fact that she would absolutely have to kill the woman.

Gaining the light again, and not knowing how long it would hold, Michonne resigned herself to that fact.

 _Lilly brought him the keys. Lilly brought him the knife. She may have brought him other things that Michonne wasn't even aware of at this time. She'd done it all blindly and stupidly, but she'd done it. She was as responsible as he was for whatever damage the Walkers had done in the prison. If she hadn't woken on time and the Walkers had torn apart what little happiness she had left, Lilly would be responsible for that too._

Michonne quickly slashed at the Walker that was almost on top of her and, in that same fluid movement, brought herself into the cell. The move seemed to surprise everyone in the space because the Governor stumbled backward, bringing Lilly with him, and Lilly yelled out to her daughter to run. The man grabbed at the little girl with the hand that wasn't holding a knife to her mother's throat, but he missed her and Michonne side stepped to grant the girl passage into the labyrinth. Her chances, perhaps, were no better out there, but at least Michonne could deal with one situation at a time.

Yelling at Meghan to run had earned Lilly a reproach from the Governor. A trickle of blood trailed down her neck where he'd pricked the skin there—it was a warning, but he wasn't going to risk killing her and losing his shield.

The light went out, bathing them in darkness, and Michonne spat a curse at her own bad luck. Her back was no longer protected by the wall and the darkness was so complete that she couldn't tell the difference between the solid form of humans, the solid form of Walkers, or simply the solid forms of furniture and walls.

In the blackness, the Governor laughed at Michonne.

"Michonne," he said. "Are you ready to stop playing now?"

He was moving. In the darkness, he was moving. Michonne had to keep him talking. His voice was going to be the only way that she could follow him. She kept her katana in front of her so that, if he were dumb enough to make a lunge for her in the darkness, he would simply impale himself.

"I don't play," Michonne said. "But you do. I'm getting tired of being here with you. I've got to get back to my family. Andrea. _My_ child. I don't have time to waste here with you."

He laughed at her again. That was fine. His jeering, whatever form it took, told Michonne where he was going and she followed it. She shuffled her feet forward, as carefully and as quietly as possible, to follow the trail of his voice.

"Andrea doesn't love you Michonne," the Governor offered. "She never did. Not the way you wanted her to. She never will. She told me she was happy that I gave her a chance to get away from you. It was you that she wanted to escape. She still wants to escape you, Michonne. She's only with you because she's using you. She's only there because—because she doesn't have a way out."

He apparently thought his taunting was funny. Michonne knew exactly what he was trying to do. He was attempting one of several possible strategies. He either wanted to win her over—tear down her trust in Andrea and everyone else in the hope that she'd turn to his side—or he wanted to upset her enough to get her drop her guard so that he could make a move for her.

Either way, it wasn't working, but his voice got Michonne out of the cell, following after him, and back into the dark corridor. Michonne knew something that he didn't know, perhaps, and that was that he was stepping right out into the passageway that Walkers were still using to try to find their way to freedom—and his voice was going to help them find their way.

"The way out that you offer is so much better," Michonne said. "A permanent way out."

He laughed again. She wondered how humorous he'd find things when he was dying.

"Like you said, Michonne, people make their choices," the Governor said. "You could make yours, you know. You don't have to die this way."

"I won't," Michonne assured him. "Don't worry."

He found some amusement in that too. She saw it on his face the moment that the lights flashed back on and revealed to her where they were. They'd stopped moving forward and now she knew why. He was trapped, at least for as long as he couldn't see, by a wall that he'd backed into. Go left or go right, those were his options, but his backward progress wasn't an option at all. As surprised as Michonne was by the return of the light, shock registered on his features. It was only compounded when he realized, at exactly the same moment, that there were Walkers on either side of him and all of them were too close for comfort.

He turned, meaning to fight off those that were grabbing at him, and offered over Lilly to them as a sacrifice. That was the moment that, reacting rather than thinking, he made the move that Michonne was waiting for. Ignoring the Walkers for a moment, she lunged forward and drove her katana into the man. From the angle of his body, it wasn't the best entrance that she could make, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was wounded.

The blood stirred up the Walkers and Michonne freed her katana to try to get control of them as quickly as she could. Lilly's echoing screams told Michonne, even more clearly than the fact that she was now surrounded, that the woman was no longer of her concern. Her screams, though, weren't helping with the Walker situation.

In the confusion, Michonne felt the burning bite in her side. The pain immediately made her dizzy and nauseous. Still, she was relieved to quickly glance at her wound and see the hilt of the knife that he'd buried there—at least it wasn't a bite. Face to face with him, the Governor sneered at her. He was close enough to her that she could feel his breath. The wound she'd delivered to him would eventually be mortal—and it was clear that he thought he'd paid her back in kind.

Michonne shoved him back and he lunged at her once more, exhausting some of the draining energy that he had left, to try to stab at her again. Michonne moved to the side and raised her katana. She drove the blade home with more accuracy than he did and, this time, she lifted up on it once she was sure it was deep in his chest.

Shock. Surprise. Lethargy. It was always strange to see the expressions that registered on someone's face the moment that they knew they were dying. For just a moment, Michonne scared herself because, for the first time, she _enjoyed_ seeing the emotions that crossed his features.

She pulled her blade free, backing up, and he slumped. He had no other choice. He was only barely alive. She could leave him, comfortable in the knowledge that the Walkers would do their job and finish him off, but her churning gut wouldn't allow her that.

Even dying, he smirked at her.

"I'll see you in hell, Michonne," he said.

Now it was Michonne's turn to laugh to herself.

"You might," she said. "But I'm going to take my time getting there. Goodnight, Phillip."

He flinched and attempted to cover his face. Hands, though, certainly couldn't stop the katana blade. The only thing that did stop it, in fact, was the back of his skull. Michonne could have forced it through, but it would've been overkill and would've risked chipping her blade on the wall behind him.

Snatching her blade free, and having no time to waste in overlooking the blood bath she was leaving behind, Michonne got her back to the wall and retreated backward—hoping that she could find her way out of the labyrinth. As she went, she hacked at Walkers when she could and made decisions about her escape every time the light was in her favor.

Finally, feeling that she was at least temporarily out of danger from the Walkers, Michonne took advantage of one of the flashes of light to stop and tear the shirt she was wearing apart. Modesty meant nothing to her at the moment and she was growing concerned that her dizziness was coming from the bleeding wound in her side as much as it was coming from the flashing lights. She wound the ripped shirt around herself as best as she could and bound the wound with the makeshift bandage before she continued seeking her escape from the tombs.

She continued along the path that she'd chosen, hoping that the slashed up Walkers were leading her back the way she'd come, and only stopped when she heard a sound that made her hair stand on end. The lights flashed off again, bathing Michonne in darkness, and she stood still and listened to the sound to use it for direction.

It was, unmistakably, crying.

Panting in the darkness, Michonne stayed still and waited out the flashing lights. When they lit up the space again, she moved as quickly as she could and followed the sound. In one of the cells, almost flattened to the point of invisibility against a top bunk, Michonne found the source of the tears. Michonne made her way over to the bunk and didn't blame the girl when Meghan scrambled away from her.

"You're going to be OK," Michonne offered. "I'm going to get you out of here, OK? I'm going to get you back to where it's safe. Your aunt is there. I'm going to take you to your aunt, OK? She'll take care of you."

"Did you kill my Mommy?" Meghan asked.

Michonne swallowed and shook her head.

"No," she said. "I didn't. He did, but I didn't."

"Did you kill him?" Meghan asked. "Brian?"

Michonne nodded her head. She had no reason to lie to the little girl.

"I had to," Michonne said. "He was going to keep killing people if I didn't. He could've killed you. Your aunt. My little baby. He could've killed a lot of people. I had to stop him, Meghan."

"Are you going to kill me?" Meghan asked.

Michonne shook her head.

"I wouldn't do that," Michonne said. "Nobody is going to kill you. Nobody is going to _hurt_ you. I'm going to get you out of here. And then? I'm going to take you back to your aunt."

Meghan shook her head at Michonne.

"The monsters will get us," Meghan said. "They're out there. They'll get us. They can't—they can't get us up here."

Michonne swallowed the strange sense of amusement that bubbled up in her chest.

"The scariest monster is gone now," Michonne promised the girl. "These others? The Walkers? They're not that scary because they're not that smart. You just stay close to me, OK? You hold—you hold onto to me. And I won't let the monsters get you."

Michonne might have expected the girl to climb down the same way that she'd climbed up the bunk, but Meghan leaned over and wrapped her arms around Michonne, making it clear that she expected Michonne to lower her to the floor. For the sake of getting the girl down and out of there—especially before they were bathed in darkness again—Michonne gritted her teeth against her own pain and did just that. As soon as Meghan's feet were on the floor, though, Michonne shook her head at her.

"I can't carry you," Michonne said. "You've got to walk. But—just hold onto me. We're getting out of here. We'll be out of here before you know it."

"You're bleeding," Meghan pointed out.

Michonne laughed to herself.

"Just a scratch," she promised Meghan. "Nothing to worry about. Be quiet now. Come with me."

Meghan understood the gravity of the moment and she wrapped her arms around Michonne and walked with her as Michonne tried to navigate their escape. The only thing she had to use for any sort of guidance were the slashed bodies of Walkers that, without thinking about it, she'd left for herself like a trail of morbid breadcrumbs. She shuffled through the hallways, the little girl pulling at her, whenever the light was on and she stopped and held the girl close to her whenever it went out. Every corner turned, and every step taken, Michonne hoped to see the not-so-proverbial light at the end of the tunnel that would tell her they'd found the cell block and the door that she'd left open.

And with every step, she was prepared to slice through whatever Walkers might come wandering back in her direction.

When she saw the light at the end of the tunnel, though, it wasn't the light to cell block. Instead, it was the dancing beam of a flashlight that found her during one of the temporary blackouts. She relaxed into the wall, finally letting her guard down a little, when she heard a familiar voice ring out in the corridors around her.

"It's Michonne," Daryl said. "I got her. Got the lil' girl, too."

 _And, happy to hand over control for a moment, Michonne believed him._


	74. Chapter 74

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **Judging by my notes, the wrap up won't be as long as I thought it would. We're looking at another chapter or maybe two.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Michonne wasn't ashamed of the fact that she was leaning on Daryl by the time they'd made it out of the tombs and back through the cell block that they'd given the Governor. She wasn't ashamed that she let him practically carry her to Hershel's cell or that she closed her eyes to the chaos and destruction that filled their own cell block. She was tired and, maybe, she had lost more blood than she realized.

Meghan clung to Michonne regardless of her current condition and it wasn't until they neared Hershel's "clinic" cell that Tara appeared and called out to the child. Meghan hesitated, but Michonne nudged her forward as Tara approached so that she finally fell into the arms of her aunt.

"Come on, Michonne," Hershel said, surprising Michonne as he approached her and Daryl from the other side. "Let's get you in the cell. Let me have a look at that."

Michonne liked Hershel's idea the best of any that she'd heard recently and Daryl apparently anticipated that she would because he began to lead her in that direction. Tara caught Michonne's arm, though, and tugged her back.

"Lilly?" Tara asked.

Michonne shook her head.

"I'm sorry," Michonne said. She didn't have much else that she felt she could say at the moment.

"It's over," Daryl said. "Whole thing. It's over."

"What happened?" Tara asked.

"She made her damn choice," Daryl barked, pulling Michonne toward Hershel's cell. "That's what the hell happened."

Michonne pulled against Daryl, though, and he allowed her the moment that she was requesting to speak to Tara.

"He was exactly what we knew he was," Michonne said. "I guess he thought—he'd weaken us with the Walkers and then he could get control. That's what it was always about for him. Control. Over everyone. He thought he'd kill most of us. Maybe he thought he'd kill all of us. I killed him."

"You killed her?" Tara asked.

Michonne shook her head.

"I didn't have to," she said. She chose not to tell Tara that her sister had been sacrificed to a small bunch of the hungry Walkers. That was an image, honestly, that she was sure the young woman could live without. "I'm sorry," she offered again. Without staying there to watch Tara process something that was, more than likely, quite difficult for her, Michonne let Daryl get her into Hershel's cell and she spoke her appreciation to him when he helped her onto the examination table that they'd constructed for their "doctor."

"What happened?" Hershel asked, starting to unwind Michonne's make-shift bandage.

"Knife wound," Michonne said. "There was too much going on. He caught me with my guard down. It was a stupid mistake."

"Anything I can do?" Daryl asked.

"Ask around," Hershel said. "Find me some universal donors. Type O blood."

"I'm type O," Tara said, coming in behind Hershel. Michonne hadn't realized that the woman hadn't left. "I'm a universal donor. I can help." Hershel regarded her. "I want to help," Tara clarified, apparently fearing that Hershel would refuse her. He nodded at her and then looked at Daryl.

"Get Beth out of the cell she's locked in? She's in my cell. Tell her I could use a hand in here. Carol too, if you can find her," Hershel said.

"Andrea," Michonne said. "Where's Andrea?"

"In your cell," Hershel said. He laughed to himself. "Nobody would let her out until you came back."

"I want to see her," Michonne said. "I need to—see her."

Hershel nodded his head at Daryl.

"Bring Andrea too," he said. "While you're at it."

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"Mich—he could have killed you," Andrea said while changing Michonne's bandage. The wound would heal, but not before giving Michonne some trouble. This wasn't the first time that Andrea had expressed her concern over the danger Michonne had been in, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Michonne was familiar with that gnawing after-the-fact anxiety that Andrea was feeling.

"It would've been worth it," Michonne pointed out. "As long as I knew he was going to die? It would've been worth it knowing that you and Andrew were safe."

"We couldn't be anything but safe," Andrea said. "Nobody let us out of the cell."

Michonne laughed to herself and then groaned at the fact that using those muscles sent a searing pain through her body.

"That was actually my plan," Michonne said. "I'm just glad they recognized and respected my wishes."

"You scared me to death, Michonne," Andrea said, some reproach in her voice. It wasn't the first time, either, that Michonne had heard that since Hershel had taken care of her wound and sent her to bed.

"I'm sure you were scared," Michonne ceded, "but you—at least you didn't..." Michonne stopped her own stream of words, rethought them, restructured them, and started again. "At least you saw me moving about with my own free will. At least—when Daryl brought me out of there? It wasn't in a tarp. And you didn't have to hear Rick say something like—the tarp would make it easier to bury me when I died. At least—they weren't outside digging my grave while you waited to see what Hershel would say."

"You know I'm sorry for that," Andrea said. "It wasn't exactly the best day I ever had either. But that doesn't mean you have to _try_ to get me back for it."

Michonne snorted.

"I'm not trying to get you back for anything," Michonne said. "I was trying to put an end to things and I did. This? This will heal. And it won't take long. I'm already feeling better. But now he's gone. Gone, Andrea. He will _never_ bother any of us again."

Michonne bit her lip against the discomfort of Andrea's careful wound cleaning and reminded herself that, more than once, she'd probably put Andrea through a decent amount of discomfort for her own good. As soon as Andrea smoothed the clean bandage into place and taped it down, Michonne relaxed back into the mattress. She blew out the deepest part of the breath that she'd been holding to get through the cleaning without too much complaint.

"I'm sorry it hurts," Andrea said softly. "I'm sorry—you had to do that. I'm sorry I brought him here."

Michonne caught Andrea's hand. She shook her head at her as soon as she had Andrea's attention.

"You didn't bring him here," Michonne said. "No matter what anyone says? You didn't bring him here. He knew about this place and he was coming. He wanted everything for himself. Everything. And he was going to want the prison too. You just happened to get caught up in his web."

"I'm sorry for that too," Andrea said sincerely.

"I'm not," Michonne said. Andrea made a face at her and Michonne shook her head. "I'm not," Michonne repeated. "I was. And I'm sorry for how things happened. I'm sorry that—you went through what you went through, but I'm not mad anymore about what happened. It—taught me a few things. A few things about myself and some things about you. And if things hadn't happened the way they did? We wouldn't have Andrew. And he's worth it. All of it. This is worth it."

Andrea smiled at Michonne. She nodded her head.

"He is," Andrea said. "You want to hold him? So I can go—help out there a little bit?"

Michonne nodded her head and Andrea went to the little bassinet where the baby slept and lifted him out. Gently, she put in him Michonne's waiting arms. Andrew turned his head, drew up his arms in quiet protest, but sunk back into sleep without actually ever letting it be known that he was aware of the transition.

"Don't be gone too long," Michonne told Andrea. "We're fine here, but I can't feed him."

"I'll keep checking in," Andrea promised Michonne. "And Hershel will too. You'll be able to find me if you need me."

Andrea offered Michonne a kiss that Michonne accepted and returned with enthusiasm before Andrea left the cell and left Michonne—quite unused to being the one told to take it easy when there was work to be done—to cuddle Andrew and wait for her return.

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"Stop talkin' about it like we learned something we didn't already know!" Daryl yelled at Rick, finally unable to stand listening to him yammer on to himself while they worked digging graves for those who hadn't quite gotten away from the Walkers that flooded the prison. "He showed us he was fuckin' crazy. Showed us we were right from the word go. Shoulda killed him the first minute we had a chance and never stopped to think twice about it. Woulda been digging just one grave I was happy to dig instead of all these."

"We thought he could change," Rick said.

"And he couldn't," Daryl said. "Or he didn't want to. In the end, don't really matter which it was. Turned out the same way."

"It does matter, though," Glenn said.

"These holes is getting filled, either way," Daryl pointed out.

Glenn stopped digging for a moment. He dragged his arm across his forehead and Daryl noticed that the Korean's hands were shaking from the exertion. All of them were tired. Everyone was tired. They'd started the day with a rude awakening, worked their way through absolute terror, simmered in shock and mourning, hauled bodies out like potato sacks, and now half of them were scrubbing away the horror of the day's incidents while the other half of them were planting bodies in the ground.

Tired was an understatement.

"Listen," Glenn demanded. "If we say that—if we say that he didn't change because he _couldn't_ change it's a lot different than if we say that he didn't change because he didn't _want_ to change. If he couldn't change, then it means that none of us can. And we know that's not true. We've all changed. And maybe—we'll all change some more."

"Don't matter," Daryl mumbled.

"Are you the same person you were?" Glenn asked. "Back at the rock quarry? Outside Atlanta? Are you the same person you were then? When you and Merle showed up at our camp?"

Daryl could admit to himself, fully and completely, that he absolutely was not the same person that he used to be. He was glad, too, for most of the changes that had taken place in his life since the world had changed. He wasn't in the mood, though, to admit that at this moment. He didn't want to say anything that might lend even the slightest bit of credit to the man who had caused all of this before Michonne finally took him out in the dark passageways of the tombs.

He could have cost them everything. He could have cost all of them even more than he had.

When Daryl woke up, one of the damned Walkers was already in his cell. Carol slept on the outside of the mattress. It was practically on top of her when Daryl realized they weren't alone in the cell.

The Governor could have cost him Carol—and he wasn't giving the man even an ounce of credit for being human.

"We shoulda killed him that first damn night," Daryl said. "Fed him a bullet as a last meal."

"I know that now," Rick said. "I understand that now. I didn't want to then because I thought his people would turn on us."

"Well, they ain't gonna turn on us now," Daryl said. "Most of 'em's goin' in the ground."

"The point is," Glenn said, "that he could've changed, but he didn't want to. He wanted to keep being what he was and that's what he did. But—the one thing he did teach is us that we've got to keep putting things behind us. We've got to put him behind us and everything that happened with him. We've been putting it behind us. And we've gotta _keep_ doing that. There's a lot of people out there. We can't be all that's left. And some of those people? They're good people. If they weren't? We wouldn't be upset about anybody we're burying today. We've got to remember that. There are still good people."

Daryl sucked in a breath and sunk some of his frustration into breaking through the hard dirt that he'd been chipping at for a while with his shovel. This grave—the one he was digging at the moment—would be the grave for Ryan. The man that Carol had put down. The man who had left behind two kids. This was his hole.

"There's still good people," Daryl ceded. "But there are assholes too."

"Nobody's arguing that point," Rick said.

"We need people," Glenn said. "Good people to help us stand against any not-so-great ones that might show up sometime. So we need to be able to trust people. We need to be able to—trust the good people."

"Trust 'em all day long," Daryl said. "If they good people. But what the hell else we need to trust is our damn guts. I ain't rested easy since we brought that asshole in here. But I went along with this shit just the same as everybody else because that's what we decided to do."

"You can say it," Rick said. "You can say what you're thinking because I know you're thinking it. It's all my fault. You blame me for all of this."

Daryl sucked his teeth.

"No," he said. "Yeah. Yes and no. Hell, Rick. I blame you for it, but you ain't to blame. We all are. I went right along with the whole damn thing too. There's just as much blood on my hands as is there is on yours."

"Blood on everybody's hands," Tyreese said. "None of us have our hands clean anymore. All of us pointing our fingers at each other won't help."

"From here out," Daryl said. "I ain't going along with it no more. Not if it's against my damn gut. Trust the good if they good, but we don't let people in here if they ain't. We don't give 'em a chance to see if they gonna go from being an asshole to being an angel. Not fucking around. Not with our home."

"I agree with that," Glenn said. "From now on? At that first meeting? If anybody's not comfortable? We figure out what to do about it. We figure out how to handle it. And if the only way we think we can handle it is by keeping that person separate from everyone else, we figure out another way to handle it."

"You're right," Rick agreed. "Maybe it's time—for a true democracy."


	75. Chapter 75

**AN: Here we go, another chapter. There's one more to go and we'll wrap this story up.**

 **As always, you must forgive the mushy goodness that comes from my unapologetic love of all things warm and fluffy.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"You're not in bed yet?" Carol asked, closing the curtain over the cell door behind her. She'd had to replace the old one during the day because the chaos of the morning had seen it ripped down and covered in gruesome evidence of the morning's horrors.

"Waiting on you," Daryl said. "Slide in."

"You want me to get in first?" Carol asked. "That's your side of the bed."

"Your side now," Daryl said.

Carol thought his behavior was odd, but by now she'd learned that there were some things it was simply better not to question with Daryl. He wanted things done a certain way and, even if she didn't always understand his ways, nothing he'd ever requested of her had actually caused more harm than good. Carol crawled across the bed and took her place in what she generally considered Daryl's spot on the bed, next to the wall. Seeing that she was settled, Daryl lifted the covers and got in bed himself, but he didn't blow the lamp out immediately.

"How the girls?" Daryl asked.

"As good as can be expected," Carol said. "How can they be? They saw their father die today."

"You tell 'em they could come in here?" Daryl asked. "I mean—just if they needed us or something?"

Carol hummed at him.

"I told them," she confirmed. "Just like you asked. Just like you told them before they even went in there. They know. If they needed us for anything, they just have to come and get us. We're right here."

"They good kids," Daryl said.

"They're ours now," Carol said. "Are you—upset that I made that promise without talking to you?"

Daryl made an odd sort of sound that was a catch between laughter and a hum.

"I don't supposed you have a lot of time when somebody's dyin' to say 'hey, you wait right here 'cause I gotta go find Daryl an' see what he's gonna say about all this,'" Daryl responded.

"That's not much of an answer," Carol pointed out.

Daryl rolled toward her in the bed. He looked exhausted. Everyone looked exhausted. By the time they were eating dinner—a meal that was thrown together, not well prepared, and served much later than they would normally eat—everyone looked like they were barely awake enough to swallow.

"No," Daryl said. "I ain't pissed off. We got two kids now. That's what we got. And—we gonna do the best with 'em that we can do with 'em. Teach 'em shit. How to—hunt so they don't run outta meat. How to tend that garden we all so proud of. How to—keep them animals reproducing instead of dying out." He shrugged his shoulders. "Teach 'em how to survive."

"And if we go on the road again?" Carol asked. "If this place turns out not to be forever?"

"Teach 'em about that too," Daryl said. "What they don't already know? We teach 'em the rest. End of the day? They our kids now. That's what we raise 'em as."

Carol couldn't keep herself from smiling at him, but it didn't mean that her gut wasn't churning over the idea of having so much responsibility.

"What if something happens?" Carol asked.

Daryl narrowed his eyes at her and then relaxed his features. He didn't have to ask why she was concerned. He didn't even pretend that he didn't know. More than likely, he'd thought about the same things. After all, he had been the single greatest force on Carol's side when Sophia had been lost.

"I can't promise you it won't," Daryl said. "Hell—I didn't expect to wake up this morning feelin' like my fuckin' chest was gonna explode. But—we'll do our best to keep it from happening. And if it does? We'll get through that too. Biggest damn thing is workin' our asses off to make sure it don't. We know more now than we did. More prepared. Know better what to do and...what not to do." He sighed and flopped onto his back. "All the more reason I told Rick today that—I ain't fuckin' around with his give ever'body a chance to prove they can be OK. You good or you gone. That's the way shit's happenin' around here from now on. And I ain't alone. Got enough damn people backin' me that—majority rules. Got kids now. Lots of 'em. And we can't fuck around with that because Rick wants to be some kinda—give peace a chance, nice guy. You'd think he'd know that for himself—Carl and Judith and all..."

Carol let Daryl go on. He was talking to himself as much as he was talking to her. The events of the day had scared Daryl in a way that he probably wouldn't be comfortable putting into words—at least not into those specific words—and the way that he was dealing with his fear seemed to be by planning an entirely different route for them all to take when it came to welcoming people into their group—their extended family. He wasn't the leader of the group, and maybe he never would be, but he was making it quite clear that he wasn't entirely interested, any longer, in playing follow the leader with Rick.

Maybe the change had come from fear of losing his own life, but Carol thought it might come more from fear of losing the something he finally had that he felt was worth keeping.

When Daryl had talked out his thoughts on the matter, and he'd grown quiet, Carol turned to see if he'd simply talked himself to sleep. If he had, she'd have to crawl over him as delicately as possible to blow out the lamp. He was lying there, though, with his eyes open. He seemed to be just contemplating the ceiling—or maybe he was finishing his words in his mind instead of giving voice to them.

"You really think we'll be OK? Here or—out there? You and me and—Mika and Lizzie?" Carol asked. It sounded strange to her to put the girls' names out there, officially, as part of their tiny family unit.

"Yeah," Daryl said, his voice coming out almost as a growl. "Yeah." He laughed quietly to himself. "They Dixons now. You too. Like Merle used to say...guess it was true...can't nothin' kill a Dixon but a Dixon."

Carol was struck by the statement. Merle died at the hands of the man that Michonne had finally killed today. He'd died in an effort, perhaps, to save them all. But, if you looked at it closely enough, his prediction was still true. Merle had made the decision to do what he did. He'd gone into it knowing the risks. Maybe he'd even known how it would end.

Merle Dixon had chosen Merle Dixon's end.

"I think...Dixons are about to become the overwhelming majority around here," Carol said.

Daryl looked at her.

"Four of us," Daryl said. "You might be right."

"Four of us," Carol echoed. "Or...five."

Daryl looked at her a minute, confused, and then his expression changed. Carol felt a tinge of nausea and her pulse picked up as she waited for things to settle for him.

"You..." he said, the one word coming out as a question, but a question that wasn't entirely formed even in his mind.

"I've known for a while," Carol said. "Hershel knows. But—I didn't want to say anything. Everything's so—touch and go. I just thought...it would be better not to say anything until I _knew_."

"You mean you..." Daryl said again, but the statement still fell off unfinished. Carol couldn't read his expression. His mouth was partially open and it almost looked like he was working through some kind of pain that he hoped would pass soon.

"Andrew and Judith can't be the only little ones," Carol said. "I'm sure Maggie and Glenn...and Beth seems fond of Zach. Maybe the world isn't ending."

Daryl was still staring at her almost like she was a stranger in his bed.

"You sayin' that you and me?" Daryl got out, this time actually forming something of a complete question, even if it lacked information.

"There's still a chance that—things could go badly," Carol told Daryl. "I didn't want to say anything until I was sure. But—it's been about three months if Hershel and I are guessing correctly and...so far, so good."

Daryl sat up in the bed. Straight up. He turned toward Carol and his expression had changed, though it was one of shock now more than of pain.

"Fuck, Carol," he spat. "Are you serious?"

Carol shushed him because she didn't want his voice to carry too far. She didn't want everyone in the prison overhearing them. For just such a reason, her original plan had been to tell him outside somewhere—maybe in the guard tower—but the opportunity hadn't presented itself. At least, it hadn't presented itself at a time when she had her courage screwed up in quite the right way.

"Don't be so loud, OK?" Carol asked. "I don't—I'm not ready to tell everyone."

"Just when you thought you was gonna be ready to tell me?" Daryl asked, his voice coming out still more loudly than Carol really wanted. She resisted the urge to hush him again since it was clear that it wasn't going to work and, perhaps, was only going to stir him up more.

"Soon," Carol said. "I thought—I'd wait until I was sure? Maybe until..."

"Until I just noticed?" Daryl asked. "Until—until Hershel was askin' me what we were gonna name it?"

Carol laughed. She didn't mean to, but she couldn't help it. She laughed. And as soon as she'd started laughing, she felt like she couldn't actually get herself to stop. Daryl looked horrified, for a moment, at her laughter, but then he seemed to find it contagious. He laughed too, but a little more nervously than she was.

"I'm sorry," Carol said, drawing herself under control.

"You really serious?" Daryl asked.

Carol nodded her head.

"Daryl—I don't think this is the kind of thing that people joke about," Carol said.

"Then you an' me don't know the same kinda people," Daryl responded. "Are you really serious?"

Carol nodded her head again.

"I'm really serious," Carol said. "If—it all goes well? By late spring? We'll be paying all the parents back around here for keeping everyone up at night with—middle of the night feedings and...everything."

Daryl nearly tackled her. He got his arms around her and pulled her against him to the point that she almost felt he was going to drag her into his lap. Carol wrapped her arms around him, though, and closed her eyes to fully accept the embrace for what it was worth.

It was, perhaps, a Dixon-style show of happiness.

"Are you mad?" Carol asked.

"Mad you didn't tell me," Daryl said, without breaking the hold that he had on her. "But it'll pass."

"I just didn't want to tell you and then—it be like it was before," Carol said. "I didn't want to have to tell you that it wasn't real."

Daryl pulled away from her.

"Hershel said it was real?" Daryl asked.

"Oh, it's real," Carol confirmed. "I know you said you didn't care one way or the other but...are you happy, Daryl?"

Daryl laughed to himself and nodded his head at her.

"Hell—yeah I'm happy," Daryl said. "Said I didn't care 'cause I meant—if it didn't happen, that'd be OK. You know? Weren't the end of the world. But—it is happening."

"If everything goes OK," Carol reminded him.

"Then we just gonna be damn sure that it does," Daryl said. "Do whatever we gotta do. You—you take care of Lizzie. Of Mika. And we'll all take care of you. Make damn sure that—everything goes just good. Spring?"

"Late spring," Carol said. "Probably." Daryl nodded his understanding.

"Hell," Daryl said, "we should prob'ly sleep, but I don't know if I can sleep now."

"You lay down here with me," Carol said. "And—I bet you'll be asleep before you know it. You need your rest. There's still a lot to be done around here tomorrow and—I think it might be a good idea to spend some time with the girls. We need to help them deal with everything. We need to help them feel as settled and secure—as secure as we can. We have to help them grieve so they can keep going."

Daryl nodded his head and, as a show of trying to settle down, he let go of Carol entirely and blew out the lamp before he got comfortable in the bed. He patted the space in the bed that he'd now reserved for her and Carol lie down as close to him as she could, resting her head on his arm. Daryl patted her shoulder a little awkwardly, like he wasn't sure how to touch her, and Carol smiled to herself. It was going to be an adjustment, and there was no doubt about that, but it was going to be an adjustment that she was sure they'd easily make.

"We tell them?" Daryl asked. "Tomorrow?"

Carol hummed at him.

"I don't think I'm ready to tell them yet," Carol said. "Not quite yet. Let's let them get settled with us first. Let's just—keep it a secret? Just a little bit longer? Something just between us?"

Daryl hummed back at her in response and, relaxing, settled in to hug her like he might truly be considering sleep.

"Fine," Daryl said. "Just a little while. We'll keep it between us."

"Daryl?" Carol asked, when silence had fallen between them for a moment and his breathing was starting to even out.

"Hmmm?" He asked in the darkness.

"I love you," Carol said.

"Love you too," Daryl responded. "Now—settle down. We _all_ gotta get some sleep."


	76. Chapter 76

**AN: Here we go, the last chapter in this story.**

 **My thanks to those of you who have read this story. I've enjoyed writing it and I hope you've enjoyed reading it. A special thanks to those of you who have encouraged me as I've written the story and kept me going. You mean more than you know!**

 **I hope you enjoy the final chapter! Let me know what you think!**

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"Here he is," Andrea said. "All clean."

She brought the baby into the cell wrapped in a thick towel that made him look four times the size he actually was. When she placed the oversized bundle in Michonne's arms the only visible part of Andrew was his face, and part of that was hidden behind the pacifier that was being used to keep him satisfied until it was time for his before-bed meal.

Michonne waited, cuddling the bundle against her, while Andrea gathered together the supplies that she would need to diaper him and get him into warm pajamas. As soon as everything was piled up for her, Michonne rested the bundle on the bed beside her and carefully unwrapped the little boy. He shivered visibly as soon as the cool air hit him and Michonne apologized to him for the chill. Andrea—much better at the cloth diapers than Michonne was—quickly helped Michonne get him diapered and then Michonne worked him into his pajamas so that he could be warm and satisfied again. She cuddled him against her and kissed his sweet smelling forehead while she waited for Andrea to finish cleaning up the cell. Between the two of them, they were already pros at handling all of Andrew's needs.

"I need to change your bandage again," Andrea said.

"No you don't," Michonne said.

"Mich," Andrea said, some warning to her tone. Michonne laughed to herself and bit her lip against the pain that it brought about in the fresh wound.

"I mean it," Michonne said. "Hershel came in here while you were bathing Andrew. I'm all clean. The bandage will be fine until morning." She smiled at Andrea and raised her eyebrows at her. "He gave me something for pain too. I don't know if it's doing anything for my side, but it's doing something to my brain."

Andrea laughed then and eased down to sit on the side of the bed.

"Making you feel crazy?" Andrea asked.

Michonne shook her head.

"No," she said. "Nothing like that. Just—very, very relaxed. Of course—I could just be feeling relaxed because this is the first night in I don't even know how long that I can just _breathe_. There's nothing to worry about. There's _nobody_ to worry about. There's no—asking myself when he's going to show up or what he's going to do. There's no worrying if I'm going to be fast enough to stop him before—before he hurts you or Andrew." Michonne closed her eyes for a moment and sucked in the deepest breath she dared to draw at the moment. She let it out, amazed at the feeling—drug induced or otherwise—of complete and utter relaxation that she felt. "He's gone."

"I was thinking about that," Andrea said. "When I was bathing Andrew? I was thinking that. But then I realized he's not all gone, Mich. Like it or not? Andrew is his son. Andrew's just as much Philip as he is me."

Michonne looked at the baby that was bundled in her arms. For a moment, he was wide awake and looking around. The eyes that he looked back at her with were Andrea's eyes. She was sure of that. His nose was Andrea's nose. In fact, when she looked at him, she couldn't see anything in him that she didn't believe belonged to Andrea. But she also knew that the mind could do amazing things when it came to making you see what you wanted to see.

"I'm holding out on that," Michonne said. "I'm probably going to hate myself for this but are you absolutely _sure_ you never slept with Merle Dixon? Maybe you were drinking? You don't remember it to clearly but there might be a chance?"

Andrea raised her eyebrows at Michonne, but she knew that it was a joke and she didn't look sincerely offended by the question.

"You _want_ me to have had something with Merle?" Andrea asked.

Michonne considered it and nodded her head.

"I mean the past is the past," Michonne said, not able to swallow back her humor entirely. "I could forgive you for it. If there's—anything you want to confess. Get it off your chest?"

Andrea's expression wasn't much help at keeping Michonne from growing amused with the whole thing.

"I did not sleep with Merle Dixon," Andrea said. "I've told you before...there was Shane. And that was just once. And then...well, and then you. And then Philip. And then—you."

"So it's settled," Michonne said with a sigh. "Andrew is mine. I mean the odds are really in my favor."

Andrea laughed at her.

"Andrew _is_ yours," Andrea said.

"And he's yours," Michonne said. "He's _ours_ and that's all that matters. To hell with the biology of it, Andrea. It doesn't matter. Andrew is not the Governor. He's not Philip Blake. And—who's to say that the Governor was even Philip Blake."

"You mean _Brian_?" Andrea asked.

"I mean that—maybe he wasn't always that way," Michonne said. "I'll never make excuses for him but—we've all changed. Maybe who he was before all of this wasn't who he was in the tombs today. And if that's the case? It's nature versus nurture. It was his experiences that made him what he was. It was the change from one world to the other. Maybe he wasn't _born_ to be the person that he turned out to be."

Andrea leaned and picked up her son's tiny hand between her fingers. She pressed her fingertip into his hand until, left with very little choice in the matter, Andrew wrapped his hand around her finger.

"You mean maybe it wasn't something he could pass down to Andrew," Andrea said.

"That's exactly what I mean," Michonne said. "Children have been born forever from less than wonderful parents and have turned out to be amazing people. We can't believe that just because Andrew's father turned out to be a horrible person that means Andrew will inherit even a little bit of that."

"Because we're not going to let him grow up like that," Andrea said.

She already knew, of course, what Michonne was going to say because it wasn't the first time that they'd had this conversation and, more than likely, it wouldn't be the last time. They were still overcoming much of the psychological damage that the Governor had caused and that wasn't likely to be fully overcome anytime soon.

 _But eventually, it would be overcome. Eventually he would be gone. He'd be just a memory. A memory who did one wonderful thing for them in the sea of all the horrible things he'd done._

"We are going to raise Andrew to be an amazing little boy," Michonne said. She patted the mattress next to her, requesting that Andrea officially come to bed, and Andrea stood up only long enough to finish getting ready for bed before she slid under the cover and leaned her head against Michonne's shoulder. "This little boy? I'm going to teach him to use my katana when he's bigger. Maybe—we'll start him off with a machete? Something easier to handle. And you're going to teach him how to shoot a gun because—if he learned from me? He'd never hit anything."

Andrea laughed quietly. She was fully aware of Michonne's inability to hit anything she aimed at with a firearm.

"If he turns out half as amazing as you, Mich? He'll be unstoppable," Andrea said.

"You're a little unsinkable yourself," Michonne said. "Not everybody can say they practically came back from the dead."

Andrea hummed at her, but she didn't respond. Andrew, bored with their conversation, was still awake but had narrowed his eyes to slits. Michonne already knew him well enough to know, though, that he wouldn't fall asleep. He wouldn't officially close his eyes for a long rest until he'd eaten. He was just waiting Andrea out to see if she was going to make him beg for it. He'd prefer, if she was never tardy with his meals, to never cry for anything.

Michonne smiled to herself.

"He has your temperament," Michonne said.

Andrea hummed at her.

"What do you mean?" Andrea asked.

"Andrew," Michonne said. "He has your temperament. He's a very good baby. My girls? They had my temperament. They'd fuss just to make sure they still could. Andrew? I know he's your only experience with a newborn so you don't realize it, but he sleeps most of the night already. He hardly cries and when he cries? It's because he wants _something_. Give him what he needs and he's content. He's got your temperament. His needs have to be met, but he's not going to complain beyond that."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"So are you saying I don't complain, or are you saying I do?" Andrea asked.

"You asked me for shelter on the road," Michonne said. "When you were sick? You begged me to find a place where—you could just rest for a little while. And when I found you a meat locker that smelled like...like..."

"Like death?" Andrea offered.

Michonne laughed and winced at the laughter.

"Don't make me laugh," she begged. "My point is, you didn't complain. You would have stayed there if it had been safe enough. If we're being honest? That was the whole thing with Woodbury. Maybe if I hadn't been so stubborn and I'd just—found you what you needed..."

"Don't," Andrea said quickly. "Let's not go down that road again, Mich."

"The past is the past," Michonne said, agreeing with the sentiment that Andrea was trying to get across in her tone. "My only point is that Andrew has your temperament. And that's a wonderful temperament to have in this world. Because we're equipped, now, to meet everyone's needs. All it takes is some hard work."

"And you're not afraid of that," Andrea offered.

"Neither are you," Michonne said. "And Andrew won't be either." She offered Andrea the baby, just barely moving him toward her. Even the slight movement stirred the baby up because he knew the exchange that was about to take place and he began to squirm in her arms. Breaking into a pant, he spit out the pacifier that had been soothing him for a while. "Take him," Michonne said. "Feed him. Don't make him get upset and ruin his dinner."

Andrea didn't have to be asked twice. She took the baby and hushed him with a quick kiss to his cheek. Confused by the action, Andrew turned his face quickly and tried to suck at her. In his half-asleep frame of mind, he was ready to nurse before he'd been offered what he was searching for. Andrea laughed at his antics and quickly remedied the situation, getting him settled in to feed. Michonne smiled at the satisfied sucking sounds the baby made, keeping his eyes firmly closed to enjoy his meal as much as he possibly could.

"He is a good baby," Andrea said. "But I don't want to say that because—doesn't every mother say that?"

"Every mother does," Michonne said. "Sometimes, at least. But it doesn't mean that we can't say it too."

"We're going to keep him safe, Mich," Andrea said. "We have to—keep him safe." Michonne hummed her agreement, but she didn't offer any words to confirm what Andrea already knew. She'd do anything she had to do keep him safe. They both would. "He's going to grow up in this world. He'll never know anything about—the way things used to be."

"And he's going to do just fine in it," Michonne said. "We'll tell him anything that he needs to know about the way things used to be."

Andrea hummed.

"He'll think they're just fairy tales," Andrea said. "Something we made up."

"He might," Michonne admitted.

"There's so much we have to teach him, Mich," Andrea said. "So much he needs to know about—Walkers and people."

"Between the two of us," Michonne said. "I think we'll be able to handle it. He'll do some of that learning on his own. And I'm sure he'll get plenty of help from everyone around here too. For right now, though, I think he knows all he needs to know. He knows we're here, and he knows he'll get what he needs, even if he has to ask for it."

"Between the two of us," Andrea echoed. "I think we'll be able to handle it."

Michonne moved enough in the bed, this time, to lean her own head against Andrea's shoulder much the way that Andrea had done to her only moments before. She closed her eyes, the same as Andrew did to enjoy his meal as much as possible, to drink in the comfort she felt when Andrea brushed her cheek against Michonne's forehead and then gently planted a kiss there.

Michonne kept her eyes closed, her head swimming with the desire to sleep while she felt so entirely relaxed and warm and _complete_. She sucked in the deepest breath she was sure she'd drawn all day and, finding that it didn't pain her like she expected, she let it out with a satisfied sigh.

"I know we will," she said. "I know we will."


End file.
